Bletchley and Bell
by Ruckust
Summary: Katie Bell isn't anything like Miles Bletchley. Opposites attract, right? Hogwarts from a Slytherin POV, KBxMB with friendship thrown in.
1. The Great Save

**This will be a story primarily focusing on the main character and narrator here is Miles Bletchley, Slytherin Keeper for the Quidditch team. **The story will be an eventual Katie/Miles, which is probably an unusual pairing. (Including Miles himself is probably an unsual story to begin with.) Still, she won't appear in every chapter: As I wrote this, I decided that this story'll be like Hogwarts (and eventually the Wizarding World) from the perspective of a Slytherin minor character. ****

**Miles isn't particularly fleshed out in the books, so I've made him a year older than Harry: placing him 3 years younger than Marcus Flint, 2 years behind Montague and Warrington, a year behind Derrick and the same year as Bole. This chapter takes place during the same year as Prisoner of Azkaban, but after the events of the main story.**

**This is my** first attempt at writing fanfiction: I do hope you'll enjoy! F****

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It was damp in the team room, and the heat of seven eager Slytherins compounded my discomfort. We were gathered here, as usual, for pre-game preparations. At this point, all of us had our equipment on, and the only thing left for us to do was discuss team strategy. To my left, Lucian Bole smugly fingered his Nimbus 2001. Frowning, I turned to view the Slytherin Captain, who had entered the room. His eight years of experience in Quidditch made him a particularly talented player: it was his absence from the first game of the season, due to a Herbology incident, that caused us to lose to the Ravenclaws. He took up the post of captainship now with a renewed vigour and viciousness. Marcus Flint rubbed his paws together boorishly as he paced left and right, addressing me and the rest of the team with zeal. "Listen, Slytherins. Today, we play against Gryffindor again. This is my last game against the Gryffindors: let's give them a game they won't forget!" Today's match wasn't only for glory: if we lost this round, we had no chance of winning the Quidditch Cup. If we could not win the Quidditch Cup, that would be three years of defeat in a row, and three years of professional Quidditch scouts overlooking us.

Flint's face scrunched up in an ugly, snaggletoothed smile: the same smile he wore when his 'rough-and-tumble play' landed Duncan Inglebee in the Hospital Wing for two whole weeks, and that was for a practice match. A gut feeling told me any Gryffindor walking out of this match unscathed would be an anomaly. We capitalised on Madam Hooch's tendency to ignore most physical contact, and planned to use this to our advantage. In theory, the opposing team could do so, but we were about to show them how their nobility and pigheaded insistence to play fair was their disadvantage.

"Remember, it takes a functional arm for them to score," Flint slammed one fist into an open palm for emphasis, "and we wouldn't want that, would we?" The rest of his speech, which Flint clearly intended to be stir us into a frenzy, devolved into his usual pre-game rant about how Gryffindor's previous wins were a fluke thanks to Potter, and the only way to level the playing field was to level Potter's face. In addition, he outlined his intentions to punish 'both Weasels', who had directed an express delivery of three Bludgers into Flint's throwing arm in the previous match.

Two minutes of bellowing later, Flint's parody of a motivational rally had ended, and he dedicated himself to the challenging task of outlining game strategy. To his fellow Chasers, Montague and Warrington, Flint made the idea of passing the Quaffle to him at all costs extremely clear. Flint was clever: as the best shooter on our team, no one had reasonable grounds to contest his domination of the ball, even if he was a glory hound. The Chasers seemed to realize this, and with a blank look in their eyes and rapid nods, the Chasers murmured their agreements. Satisfied, the captain turned to the Beaters. To Derrick and Bole, Flint thought up eight different ways to phrase "Smash the Gryffindors", and violently demonstrated the manner they should do so. There was an devious gleam in Derrick's eyes, and Bole traced his bat with his fingers with a confident grin. Flint then directed his attention to Malfoy, our Seeker, and more importantly, sponsor. One thing the team could agree on was that he wasn't particularly talented. _Not that we ever mentioned that to him_. Whether it was his father's influence or deep coffers that got him in was unknown, but the subsequent purchase of top-tier broomsticks more than made up for it. If we could score enough goals, as we had done in the past, Malfoy's lackluster playing skills would be less of an issue.

"Don't let Potter get his filthy hands on the Snitch _this time._" Flint's voice was gravelly, but managed to convey enough threat, making Malfoy glance elsewhere nervously. An answer was about to escape from his lips, but Flint jabbed a spindly finger into the boy's chest. "It's my last game. If Potter catches the Snitch, I'll make sure it's your last game too!" he snarled. A pregnant silence passed, and Flint finally sauntered over to me.

His grey eyes bored into me, and I felt my blood curdle. Marcus Flint was not as well-built as the other Chasers, but Merlin have mercy on those who incur his wrath. "Bletchley, don't mess this game up. Do your job, Keeper." It wasn't so much a request as it was a statement. Dumbly, I nodded, Flint never once breaking eye contact with me.

Flint turned away from me, and once more swept his gaze over the team. "We'll hit them as hard as we can.", he declared. He clenched his fists together, then nodded. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. 'We'll do just that."

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"Gryffindor scores again! Excellent play by Alicia Spinnet, over there, it's not often we see a fifth year pull off a Finbourgh Flick with that much ease..." Lee Jordan's Sonoros-enchanted voice rang a tad too loudly as he gleefully recounted the events of the match thus far. "40-0! If the Slytherins are to make a comeback, assuming that's possible... (Just kidding, Professor!) they'll have to step their game up!" As the raucous seas of red and gold that lined the spectator stands cheered, I felt Flint's steely eyes bore into me from across the pitch. I was inwardly relieved that this would be his last game, and by extension held no more authority over me after this.

In my defence, I wasn't playing too shabbily. An early-game rush by Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were rendered ineffective thanks to a quick deflect with my broomstick, The first two times Gryffindor scored, I was busy dodging a stray Bludger sent my way by the Weasley twins. Lee Jordan was still blabbering on, "It seems like Warrington is looking to regain possession of the Quaffle! He's going alongside Chaser Johnson... watch out, Angelina! Close one there, folks, he nearly- FOUL! That's got to be a foul if I've seen one!" Hooch was flying over to Warrington, angrily blowing her whistle and gesturing. For the first time in the game, the jeers and boos were coming from the Gryffindor spectators, out for payback.

"Madam Hooch has awarded Gryffindor a penalty for that disgusting case of Bletching by Warrington (Shame on you, snake!)." I hastily took my position on the pitch. "Chaser Johnson's taking this shot..." I took a deep breath, readying myself. "There goes the Quaffle!" Instinctively diving to the side, I clawed at the air with my left hand, feeling a soft thwump. The Quaffle was quickly passed to Montague, and I observed it as it was forwarded to Flint. From then on, the game took a turn in direction, as Flint began to hammer away at Gryffindor. Weaving his way in and out of Bludgers, he quickly entered the scoring zone. Our first chance to score! Say what you want about Marcus Flint: bumbling oaf, conniving plotter, brutish thug, but he definitely knew his way around a Quaffle. It seemed like the Gryffindors were wary of his prowess, for Lee Jordan's commentary took on a worried tone.

"Chaser Flint enters the scoring zone... but Oliver Wood is prepared! This is it, gentlemen, expect another excellent save by Gryffindor!" The miniscule figures of Flint and Wood were playing a game of cat-and-mouse, as Flint prepared to pull off numerous feints, yet was deterred by Wood's cautious hovering. The tense situation, however, was defused by Warrington's timely arrival.

"That's a foul! Marcus Flint is joined by another one of his thugs... Thought you'd get off easy, didn't you?" The euphoria in Jordan's voice was disgusting. Hooch seemed to take notice of that instance of Stooging, declaring the Quaffle to now be in possession of Gryffindor.

That buffoon! Was Warrington on our side, or theirs? Malfoy had virtually no chance to catch the Snitch, meaning Slytherin needed to score sixteen more goals. Thanks to Quidditch's odd emphasis on the Seekers, coupled with Potter's sheer luck and sharp eye, whichever team captured the Snitch tended to end up the victor: in this case, them. The situation began to look grim. We needed those sixteen goals to win. _I_ needed those sixteen goals! I was determined to close the gap.

Clutching the Quaffle, Johnson sped straight and me and the hoops. Ducking, she avoided the meaty paw of Montague, and picked up the pace.

"Angelina Johnson speeding across to pitch to personally deliver another Quaffle into a Slytherin hoop... There she goes! She narrowly dodges a Bludger sent from Derrick... No, wait, she doesn't, and the ball is now taken by Warrington, er... Katie Bell appears to have pulled it straight from his hands! Watch out for that brute, Bell..." I sighed, once again readying to dive and block off a goal. Shifting my gaze around so as to appear distracted, I took a quick a look at Bell. As she closed in, her eyes were trained on the left hoop, and I prepared to dive for that goal the moment her wrist moved.

"Go for it, Katie!" Lee Jordan's excited cheer drowned out my thoughts, and Katie took his cue to launch the Quaffle. It swiftly cut through the air, heading for the... right hoop?

_No! _I couldn't let this one through. My reflexes took over, and quickly shifting my centre of mass, I frantically willed myself to reach the right hoop in time to stop the Quaffle. It was just out of reach, the leather tantalizingly brushing against my fingertips. A last ditch dive forward was the only way to protect the goal, and so I leaped off my broom.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ My fingers closed around the soft ridges of the ball, but I was no longer on my Nimbus. Instead, I was plummeting towards the ground rapidly. Out of the corner of my eye, my broomstick hovered lazily, instead of flying under me as I had planned. Lee Jordan's commentary became meaningless chatter. The air whistled around my ears. The ground pulled closer. Wincing, I braced myself for impact. The sharp crack of bones breaking would surely follow...

There was a rush of air to my left, and my body jerked to a halt. I was no longer falling. There was a firm grip on my right wrist, and I was slowly hoisted on my broom. Perplexed, I blinked twice, right hand clutching my Nimbus in a death grip, left hand grabbing the Quaffle. I looked to my left, right into the brown eyes of Katie Bell. Reaching over, she quickly gave me a soft pat on the shoulder. "You're no longer in danger now." Her voice was kindly.

As the two of us hovered side by side, I felt my jaw slacken, the rush of adrenaline during the fall and the ensuing turn of events puzzling me. D_id a Gryffindor Chaser just save an opponent?_ However, just as quickly as she had rescued me, Bell briskly leaned into me, wrapping one arm around me. _First saving me, then hugging me? Is she raving mad?_

I was immediately proven wrong, for she immediately peeled away, emerging with the Quaffle in her left hand. Uh oh, I just played right into her plans. She flashed me a roguish grin, then zipped up. Dazed, I traced her path with my eyes. Bell pulled off an elegant loop-the-loop, before sending the ball through the left hoop. There was a resounding gong, before I snapped out of my daze.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL'S GOTTEN INTO YOU?" Peregrine Derrick roared. He had flown up alongside me, Beater's bat in hand and giving me a nasty look. We were fifty points down, and I didn't blame him. My sloppy keeping was a detriment to my future in Quidditch, and my team. "Bletchley, let any more Quaffles through and I'll see to it that you're off the team faster than you can-" A Bludger whizzed by, prompting Derrick to angrily give it a smack. He cast one final glare my way, before shooting off in pursuit of another Bludger.

"I think Potter's spotted the Snitch!" Lee Jordan declared. From my spot in front of the goals, I made out both Seekers going neck to neck, racing each other in a tight loop around the center of the field. Distractedly, I swatted away a Quaffle launched at the middle hoop by Spinnet. My chest tightened. If Potter caught the Snitch, we were going to be flattened by more than 200 points.

The loud cheers of both Slytherin and Gryffindor died down to a murmur; even the Chasers seemed to momentarily slow down as they watched the spectacle unfold. Malfoy was throwing himself at Potter to try and knock him down, but the Gryffindor retaliated in kind. Their scuffle finally culminated in a sharp twist up, as the two Seekers relentlessly pursued the Snitch.

Another Quaffle flew my way. I grabbed it, then tossed the Quaffle to Montague. We exchanged slight nods, before he turned himself around and passed it forward to Flint. The captain' clutched the ball tightly, hunching slightly as he headed towards the-

"POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" Lee Jordan crowed, and Hooch blew her whistle. That was it. The game was over. "200-0! Gryffindor's absolutely dominated this game!" The cheers of the spectators were deafening, and on the other side of the field, the Gryffindor supporters mobbed the team, triumphantly hoisting the players into the air . Meanwhile, our side of the stands slowly emptied themselves. I clenched my fist. _Fair weather friends._ As the team landed on the pitch and sullenly filed into our locker rooms, I took a final look at the Gryffindors, but Bell didn't look my way.

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**Do leave a review explaining which parts you liked, and how I can improve! Even a simple comment about whether you liked or disliked the story will go a long, long way! The story is also unbeta'd, so any help pointing out mistakes, whether plot or prose is appreciated! **

**Cheers! ****-Ruck**


	2. Team Strategy

**I hope you enjoy the second chapter chronicling Miles Bletchley's fourth year in Hogwarts. I'd like to thank my sole reviewer, MunchkinWriter. Your words fuel my passion. I'll try my best to update on a daily basis.**

**Harry Potter and its associated intellectual properties belong to J K Rowling. **

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I finished drying myself and stepped out of the stall, fuming. Weren't post-game showers supposed to make you feel better? Evidently not, because my head throbbed heavily. My hair was dripping wet, my muscles ached and I had multiple blisters, but more importantly, we lost. We lost the match thanks to Malfoy's ineptitude for the damn sport. We lost the match because of my lousy judgment. We lost the match thanks to Warrington's inabilty to keep his meaty hands to himself. And because of that, we no longer had a shot at winning the Quidditch Cup. Damnit. Damnit! My chances of being scouted for a professional Quidditch team were dashed. Heck, with Derrick having observed my slip up, I might not even make it to next year's team. And I doubted the Beater was the only one to see the mistakes I had made during the game.

An unpleasant silence fell over the normally rowdy team room. Montague sat to the sides, nursing a Bludger-sized bruise on his back. The skin had begun to turn purple, but I was sure there was nothing Pomfrey couldn't fix. His discomfort, like the rest of us, probably stemmed from the fact that we lost the Cup this year. Next year would be his final chance to redeem himself, and he seemed to realize that it would be a difficult task. Meanwhile, Bole was fuming in the corner silently. His fellow Beater, on the other hand, was extremely vocal about his anger.

"Warrington," he seethed, but his voice had dropped to a dangerous quiet. The Chaser he had tried to summon stood a few meters away, glaring at him with his arms folded.

"What is it, Peregrine? Here to whine about the results? All of us on this team-" Warrington snarked, not bothering to move.

"It's not that!" Derrick snarled. He advanced towards Warrington, fists balled. "It was your fouls that cost us the game!"

"That's a load of crap, and you know it!" Warrington was furious now. "If Malfoy was halfway decent, you know we'd win! The one we should be mad at is him!" I frowned. He had a point.

The exchange caught the attention of the others now. Bole called out from his bench, "Where's that slimy rat now?" The team looked around, but Malfoy was nowhere to be found. This was odd, he tended to stick around the team room in the past, either criticizing team members for their imperfect plays, ranting about Potter or pathetically trying to justify his failure in catching the Snitch. Then again, maybe he had wisely shyed away this time to avoid ticking off Flint.

The Captain finally emerged from the stall, his face a mask of stoic calm. We looked at him now. "We shouldn't be blaming each other. Look, we all knew we practiced hard for this one, right?" He held up a hand placatingly, silencing us before Montague could answer the rhetorical question. "We've all practiced hard, and I've made sure you all have played at your very best." He let the message sink in: it was true. I couldn't believe our countless hours of physical training, relentless drills and team strategizing culminated in this humiliating defeat. Where did we go wrong?

"The fault therefore lies not in ourselves, but in the other team. They took this hard-earned victory from us! We trained, but they won!" The tense silence of the team room had turned into an angry buzz, our dissatisfaction clear. I murmured my assent, the injustice of it sinking in. But wasn't Flint supposed to at least console us? Not make us feel bad? I quickly dismissed this notion. This was probably normal behavior for him, just that his furious accusations and verbal beratings were being replaced by this... this speech owing to the face it was his final address.

"I plan to bring justice. Those disgusting lions may have taken away what should have been ours, but I plan to right that wrong. We'll give them what they deserve!" Flint's lips curled up in a crooked smile, revealing his buck teeth. His eyes swept across the room, awaiting a response. The room nodded in agreement, with Warrington hooting his approval. I kept quiet, but was still interested in what the Captain had to say. Those good-for-nothing Gryffindors had done nothing good for us: well, most of them. And I had no doubt Flint would help us settle the score.

Marcus Flint seemed to approve of our response. "For starters... how many of you know the Bludgeoning Charm?" There was still a smile etched on his face, but his eyes revealed no emotion. He looked around the room expectantly.

"I do." Montague piped up. His voice was gravelly, but laced with suspicion. "Me too," Derrick professed. "What's it to you?"

Marcus Flint scowled at Derrick "You'll find out soon enough, Lucian. Anyone else?" Warrington raised his hand, and Flint nodded to acknowledge. "Well, this is disappointing, Slytherins," he said with a dramatic sigh "But we can learn, because we'll be using it to teach the Gryffindors not to mess with the Slytherins again." There was a lump in my throat. This was Flint's grand plan? I knew him to be ruthless and competitive, but this made him look like a fairytale villain. Lucian Bole seemed to come to the realization that he would be involved in roughing up the lions too, because he coughed loudly.

"Uh, captain? I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with that idea..." Flint whipped around. "Listen, Bole. Where's the Slytherin in you? We're not giving them leeway, after what they've done to us! Quidditch is our career! It's what defines us! You have a duty to this team to follow this plan!" he snapped loudly, his demeanour a stark contrast from his previous attitude.

Bole blanched. "W-whatever you say. I guess you're right." This pacified Flint, and he began to continue his lecture. "Let me demonstrate the wand movement for the Bludgeoning Curse..."

A short while later, we had quickly learned to cast the spell. While my attempts had merely dented the old mannequin in the corner, Bole was far more adept at the curse than I was, blasting an old bench apart. The other players observed our practice disinterestedly, with the exception of Montague who was grabbing Bole's arm, instructing him to be more forceful with the wand flicks. As I watched Bole further reduce a piece of wood to splinters, Flint sauntered over. "Give it a rest, Montague. Lucian, you're doing alright, but try and control your energy. You're doing it too roughly. As for you, Miles: keep it as it is. Too much force and we stop hurting the Gryffindors, and start killing them. We don't want it to get too messy." His briefing sounded kind, but I could detect his pride bubbling beneath his words. "You need to practice a bit more, Lucian. I'll help you with that. As for the rest of the team: you're all dismissed! Meet me at the Great Hall tomorrow at five o' clock, and I'll give further instructions."

As we filed out of the room, something worrying was gnawing away at me. I was all for giving the Gryffindor team a painful time during their practice tomorrow. But something was wrong. Something in me was opposed to joining the team and playing along with their plans... but why? I couldn't put my finger on it, though, so I took out my wand, beginning to practice the wand movements for the Bludgeoning Curse again. If I was going to have to hurt them, I might as well do so properly. _You shouldn't be doing this. _Frustrated, I exhaled. "_Fustes_!" I watched as a small crater indented the dirt of the Quidditch pitch. Tucking away my wand, I hastened my pace back to the dungeons.

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I shifted uncomfortably in my bed, eyes unable to close. I exhaled loudly, feeling a soft pearl of sweat drip down my neck. My mind was racing. The curtains on my four-poster were drawn, and the soft woolen blankets enveloped me: still, I could not sleep. I estimated it to be around an hour after lights out: I usually took fifteen minutes at most to fall asleep. From the bed next to me, I could hear Scott Vaisey's slow breathing, and I briefly pictured the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Kevin Harper's soft snores from across the room reminded me I was the sole occupant of the fourth-year male dormitory not deep in slumber.

_It's the nerves_, I rationalized. _I didn't want to face the Gryffindors._ Yes, that was it. I was definitely not looking forward to the confrontation tomorrow. But why? Flint was competent when it came to spellcasting, and Montague was probably adept in magic too. Warrington... Warrington's brutishness probably ensured that he was well-armed and informed about cursing. And not to mention the face there would be two more: even if Derrick and Bole's skill was unknown, that was two more wands. Those Gryffindors would never see it coming: we were going to dominate them. The prissy lions probably didn't have the guts to fight back. I could already picture Flint continuing his vendetta against the Weasleys with a Piercing Hex, Derrick reducing Johnson to a bloody mess, Montague directing a _Repulso_ into Bell...

My stomach churned, and I begun to feel queasy. Was this my conscience coming into play? Or was it cowardice? _Perhaps I can't __bear to curse someone who'd saved me earlier._ No, that wasn't it. I_ couldn't_, in good faith, curse someone who'd saved me earlier. It was a matter of honor, paying back what I owed. That had to be it. Tomorrow's exchange would be unpleasant for me, but the beginnings of a plan that would both placate myself along with my team began to form in my mind.

_I'll think about it tomorrow. _The unpleasant queasiness I felt remained, but at least I now knew why I was apprehensive. Willing my eyes to close, my breathing began to slow, and darkness permeated my thoughts.

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**If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review.: whether it's to tell me you're reading, or to point out any mistakes I've made. I appreciate every single one of them. **


	3. Warmup

**Edit (2nd Aug '14): I think I might rewrite some parts of the story: if there are scenes you'd like to see elaborated upon, or you want to see a scene I've hinted at actually written out, drop me a request. I think there might be a few inconsistencies/odd plot points too, and I'd appreciate it if you could point them out too!**

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I strode into the Great Hall with an air of confidence, but inside, I was feeling uneasy. Bell helped me out during the Quidditch game yesterday, and the least I could do for her was to not play a direct role in harming her. Wasn't this what basic human beings did? Repayed favours? Still, I was torn over the issue. _It's not like she'll ever know_, a part of me reasoned. _What's stopping you from hurting her? Just a quick flick of the wand, and you can put a nice good dent in that pretty face of hers later..._

No! I couldn't do this! Yet my mind, eager to play Herpo's advocate, yet again questioned my stance._ Why not? People are inherently self-serving. You should already know that, being a Slytherin_, it mused. Still, what had I to gain? I wasn't about to advance my Quidditch career by harming the Gryffindors, was I? If that wasn't the case, why do such a thing? Why risk even being caught in the first place? What did I have to gain?

A hand lightly planted itself on my shoulder, snapping me out of my thoughts. With a jolt of surprise, I blinked twice, turning around, to see the smirking visage of Flint. "You're early," his gravelly voice informed me. _Well, I try to be early: it's always been a habit of mine._ But there were more pertinent things worth discussing with the captain.

"Flint. I've been wondering, why're doing this to the Gryffindors?" His grey eyes bored intensely into mine for a second, and my willpower was cracking: it felt like he was peering right into my thoughts. His face, an expression of boredom at first, morphed into one of distaste. He grabbed me both both shoulders firmly.

"Look, Miles. You're a rational person, you know they deserves payback. Payback for crushing our hopes, and our dreams. Those lions dashed our hopes! Slytherin's never won under my captaincy, meaning I'll never get to play professionally! Graham! Cassius! We suffer for their glory!" His voice reached a crescendo, and he was practically roaring already. The milling students around were oblivious to the tirade: Flint must have had the foresight to cast a Silencing Charm.

Nodding, I didn't break eye contact with him. "I understand, Marcus." There it was, then. Flint was doing this for vengeance. To gratify themselves. The less functioning limbs the Gryffindors had, the worse their performance would get during their match against Ravenclaw the week after. Flint wanted to tip the scales of the Quidditch Cup in favor of the Ravenclaws because of his vendetta. It wasn't my call to pass judgment on this misguided attempt to bring justice against the Gryffindors: just so long as I stayed out of it.

Or maybe it was. We might get hurt in this altercation, for those Gryffindors would surely put a good fight: yesterday's results proved that, after all. I definitely didn't fancy an extended stay in the Hospital Wing. And we weren't the only ones who were going to get injured! The Gryffindors might, too! And Bell was one of them: was this really necessary? Harming her was one way to widen the gap between what I've done for her and what she's done for her. I had a moral boundary, and I realized at that moment that Flint had crossed a line. No, he'd overstepped it and tried to get to pull me across too.

My face was a calm mask. "There's something that worries me, Flint. I don't want the plan to go wrong." This piqued his interest. He now viewed me, eyebrows creased. "What do you mean?"

Time to see if I could get Flint to change his mind about doing this. "For starters, we're planning to attacking seven people. How are we supposed to finish the job without being detected?" My words caused him to scowl even more. "And not to mention the fact we're pretty much done for once the Gryffindors tell on us! We may have gotten away with a few blows, but a full-on... assault will probably end up with us being expelled." Those were good points: I couldn't believe I had not even considered those flaws in our plan.

Flint flashed a toothy grin, before regaining the usual sly smirk he wore. "Don't worry, Miles. I've thought that one through. You're good at memory charms, aren't you?" I was. That was a fact. I had just learnt to cast the False Memory Charm earlier this year, and I had mastered the Befuddlement Charm in my second year at Hogwarts. "Yes," I conceded.

"Well, it's obvious: You charm them afterwards! I know how to cast the Oblivate spell myself, I'm sure they won't even be able to testify." Uh oh. Even when cast by seventh-years, Oblivating was a tricky spell to master. Only the Oblivating Squad were allowed to use the spell for good reason: without a good three years of training, most Oblivating spells tended to backfire. Most improperly-casted spells would wipe away a large chunk of the victim's memory: far more than the caster intended. I was fairly sure I'd read about a case where a misfired Memory Charm left the victim an invalid, unable to carry out basic motor functions. Marcus Flint wouldn't just be inflicting physical damage on them.

I was about to protest, but Flint's attention wasn't on me. Tracing his stare, I watched as the rest of the team gathered. Montague and Warrington swaggered in, gesturing animatedly. A soundless laugh escaped from his lips. Lucian Bole's mouth opened, but no words came out. Confused, I looked over to Flint, who proceeded to cancel the Silencing Charm with a swish.

"-gathered here, and we're just on time. Should we head to the pitch now, Marcus?" Bole sounded tired.

Flint grunted. "They're having practice now., so you should start heading out. Montague, we'll go ahead first and cast a Notice-Me-Not charm. I don't want anyone interfering today." So it seemed like Flint had a plan after all to prevent any interruptions. I had no way of stopping the attack now. _For now..._

The walk to the Quidditch pitch from the Great Hall was tense. A few students cast suspicious, surprised or admiring looks our way, but most cowered at our group of well-built, menacing and bloodthirsty Slytherins. Each step was heavy, as I resigned myself to my fate. Where was Slytherin cunning when you needed it?

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**Do leave a review to tell me if you've been enjoying the story, or have any criticisms. I've been thinking of writing a chapter from another POV once in a while: any thoughts? **


	4. Match Fixing

**The action scene is here. It was a bit shorter than I expected it to be, but I had fun writing it nonetheless. **

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The Gryffindors had not noticed our arrival. We were at the Slytherin team room: from our entrance, we had a clear view of the pitch, and a clear shot at them. Casting a Vision Charm to shield myself from the harsh sunlight, I observed their practice as we awaited the return of Montague and Flint. Bole looked apprehensive, nervously twirling his finger on a loose thread from his school robes. Derrick's face was twitching with anticipation, as he eyed the lions hungrily. Warrington was his usual brutish self, gripping his wand tightly and muttering under his breath. I returned my attention to the Gryffindors, idly wondering who would be the first to go down. _The Weasleys seemed like a likely candidate, with their good eye and uncanny ability to aim Bludgers. Or perhaps it'd be Wood, due to captain rivalry..._

My eyes lingered on Bell. Her small figure was in no way a hinderance to her Chaser duties: in fact, she darted up, down, left, right with a grace no one on the Slytherin team possessed. Then again, Flint seemed to fill the rosters with the stockiest, strongest players he could have found, with the exception of me._ Maybe it would be prudent for the next captain to learn brawn wasn't the sole factor in player competence_, I mused, watching Bell's second loop-the-loop around the goals. Her hair glimmered like liquid gold in the sun's rays...

I exhaled loudly. The fact Flint was undeterred by outsiders was a problem: his fiery drive to carry his actions through was what made him a captain, after all. Today, though, I would have to find a way to protect the Gryffindors- no, just Bell from harm. I wasn't about to get in trouble with the school for satisfying Flint's personal vendetta, but that didn't make things easier for me. _This would be complicated. _

The loud clatter of boots announced the return of Flint and Montague. They quickly took their positions at the exit of the team room, drawing their wands. Their entry into the pitch was an unspoken signal for us to follow suit, wands at the ready.

We filed onto the pitch, forming a half-circle. There was an angry yell from one of the Weasleys, and Oliver Wood floated down, dismounting from his broom. He trodded to us angrily, his Cleansweep lying on the grass forgotten.

"Oi! What's the meaning of this, Slytherins? We've booked the pitch today, and you know it!" Wood barked at Flint. He looked more confused than angry, but largely ignored the five of us that backed Flint up. "Here to get beat again? Thought you'd had enough of losing!" This taunt was from both the Weasleys, who were descending to the ground rapidly too. The three Chasers did the same.

Flint merely gave a menacing smile. "Us Slytherins aren't here for the pitch. We're here to make you suffer." He spit the last word out, gazing at Wood. Daring him to make a comeback. By now, both teams stood facing each other. While we were fanned out, the Gryffindors were clumped together, with Wood taking the front, the Weasleys beside him and the Chasers towards the back. I wonder where Potter is.

"A wizard's duel? You should know better, you ignorant buffoon. And no playing dirty this time, Slytherin." Wood was unfazed my the sight of Flint's teeth, instead standing his ground. Shut your mouth before it gets your team in trouble, Wood! He folded his arms, drawing his wand from his side pocket. "My second will be Angelina Joh-"

Before he could complete his sentence, there was a blur of movement to my left, and a ripple burst through the air. A Bruising Hex. Wood's eyes widened before he nimbly rolled to the floor, the hex sparking as it brushed the top of his hair. The Weasley twins had their wands out too, but before the one on the left could say anything, a violet beam whizzing from our side hit him in the chest. He was propelled two meters, before hitting the ground with a thud, his limbs splayed at an awkward angle. He didn't stir. In the meantime, the Weasley twin on the right had already fired off two spells, his face a contorted visage of rage. Two jets of blue burned into Montague, and he let out a shriek before doubling over. His wand clattered to the floor harmlessly as he clutched his chest. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of singed flesh.

The Slytherins were not standling idle, either. Warrington's teeth were bared in a snarl as he waved his wand in a counterclockwise motion furiously, sending bolt after bolt of neon green at the Gryffindors indiscriminately. Flint targeted Wood, casting numerous Bludgeoning Charms, and dodging as the lithe Gryffindor captain fired off some spells in exchange. The fight was at full swing now, with bolts of light whizzing across the pitch. An occasional shriek or yelp would punctuate the yells from each side, as we rapidly casted spells. Lucian Bole had conjured a large stone wall in the middle of the pitch, absorbing most of the spells from each side. Similarly, there was faint outline of a sphere surrounding the Gryffindors, indicating that one of them had cast a shield charm. I watched as a particularly nasty hex cast by Derrick impacted the shield, causing it to wobble. Moments later, a flurry of blue bolts cast by Flint and Derrick caused the bubble around the Gryffindors to burst with a flash of light, and a loud pop. The fight would be over soon. Both sides had faced losses: Montague lay down on the grass, clutching his chest and moaning in pain. Bole's attempt at a healing spell had been ineffective. Derrick's left arm had been hit by an immobilizing curse, but he still wielded his wand in the other hand, the injury fuelling his rage. The Gryffindors were worse off: Both Weasley twins were unconscious, and I was fairly sure Spinnet was hit by a Petrifying Charm two minutes into the foray. That left Wood, Johnson and Bell as the sole combatants on their side.

I quickly distanced myself from the battle, trying to avoid being spotted by either a Disillusionment Charm on myself, I evaluated my options as a felt a smooth sensation glide across my skin, rendering me unnoticeable to the naked eye _If I could only find a way to stop the fight, no one else needs to get hurt..._ Unfortunately, a peaceful resolution was out of the question. Still, I had yet to cast a single harmful spell: I had not attacked neither the Gryffindors, nor the Slytherins. Perhaps it was time to change that. "Avis!" A quick figure-eight motion, and a jab forward: My wand glowed white-hot for a second, before spitting out a burst of white feathers. A second later, a murder of crows emerged from it, flying towards both the Slytherins. I nervously watched as the flock of around forty birds descended in front of the Slytherins. Their loud cawing caused Flint to recoil in fear, while Warrington stepped forward, waving his wand frantically. There was a flash of red light, and I watched helplessly as three of the crows disappeared in a flurry of feathers.

My distraction wouldn't hold for much longer, unless... "_Opugno!_" Willing the birds to merely occupy their time and not maim, I directed the flock to the remaining Slytherins. The cawing grew in intensity, and they disappeared under a mess of feathers. From behind the stone wall, the remaining Gryffindors emerged. Johnson merely watched the scuffle with an amused expression, but Wood cautiously approached the tangle of crows and Slytherins, wand clutched in one hand.

The murder of crows was almost entirely gone by now. As a scratched-up Flint disintegrated another pair of crows, he came face to face with Wood. I could make out the silhouette of another Slytherin collapsing, while Bole staggered towards the exit of the Quidditch pitch. Warrington must have been the one hurt badly. This wasn't going according to plan: I merely meant to distract them! Still, revealing myself would probably end badly, since Flint might figure out quickly that I was the one who conjured the crow. There was nothing left for me to do but wait here and observe: the Disillusionment Charm would only apply so long as I maintained a safe distance.

Flint and Wood were a sight to behold: Wood's robes were torn in multiple places, and blood dripped from his forehead. Flint had scratch marks all over his body: his Quidditch robes peeled at some points, revealing a set of sturdy underclothes. Despite his wounds, Wood stood defiantly, his eyes issuing a silent challenge towards Flint. They were still for a moment, just two meters away from each other, wands raised. Flint smirked for a second, before-

"Stupefy!" A jet of red light sparked from Wood's wand, and Flint slumped to the ground. Wood stared at the unmoving bodies of Flint and Derrick, before slowly walking over to a groaning Montague and Warrington, who was still twitching feebly. "That's it, then. Fight's over. I should probably get Madam Pomfrey." Wood let out a sigh. "I hope she doesn't kill me for this."

"I wonder why they were dumb enough to attack us like this. They weren't at full strength, either: I didn't see Miles Bletchley and Draco Malfoy. Probably too scared to show up in a proper fight, just like how Lucian Bole scampered," Johnson piped up. Wood gave a curt nod, before continuing: "Angelina, I want you to watch over the injured. I don't think Graham Montague or Cassius Warrington's going to attack, but you never know. Katie, you go to Professor McGonagall's office. Tell her what happened here: she'll sort the Slytherins out." With that, he turned on his heel and briskly jogged out of the pitch.

They hadn't saw me! My Disillusionment Charm along with my refrain from participating in the skirmish must have caused them to assume I had not showed up, albeit for unflattering reasons. Still, most Gryffindors already had the belief that all Slytherins were cowardly, so I wasn't about to be knocked down a peg in their eyes. _I hadn't harmed Bell. I prevented further injury... or at least had tried to do so. _And that was what mattered today.

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**Do review and tell me how you found the story. How does my depiction of the characters differ from the headcanon? If I could expand on one part of the story, which part would you have me work on? I appreciate every single comment that comes my way. **


	5. Play-Acting

**I'm done with another chapter, hope you enjoy! I'm not sure if Katie's attitude towards Miles changes too quickly, but I've always thought of her as a trusting person. **

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"Rennervate!" Johnson stood over the unconscious figure of one of the Weasley twins, desperately waving her wand. There was a splutter, and a weak ray of white light illuminated him, but he did not stir. Johnson was more frantic. "Rennervate!" Still, nothing happened. _Wait for Pomfrey, damnit!_ Wood was already fetching help, and I doubted Flint would have used something as innocuous as a Stunning Spell to knock Weasley out. Ignoring Johnson's subsequent attempts to revive the Gryffindor Beater, I cast a quick look at Bell She was exiting the pitch from the other end, as the Hospital Wing and McGonagall's offices were at differing ends of the school.

I did not want to stay around the pitch longer than I should have, lest I get involved in the aftermath. It was either I take the same path as Wood or Bell back to the castle: the choice was rather clear. Slowly, I walked in the same direction as Bell, out of the pitch. I stumbled a few times on the way out: Disillusionment Charms were a difficult spell to maintain, as they required energy and skill. Fortunately, Johnson had been caught up in trying to awaken her fellow Gryffindors that she did not hear my clumsy footsteps.

Finally, I was out of the Quidditch Pitch. I stepped off the cobblestone path, and onto the grass. The Disillusionment Charm merely masked me, and did not muffle my footsteps. I briefly considered running ahead of Bell to have a better chance of escape, but I was physically drained from my previous use of the Disillusionment Charm. I wasn't even sure if I could continue maintaining the current charm that concealed me.

Bell was about ten meters ahead of me now. We were about half a kilometer to the castle: I could see the familiar sight of the astronomy tower and the block of professor's offices from my spot on the grass. _Another five hundred meters and I could get this over with, have a clean conscience..._

There was a sharp ache rippled across my forehead, and black spots begun to dance in my vision. The hand gripping my wand quivered. A sinking feeling began to form as I realized what was happening. Magical exhaustion had begun to set in:_ I should have known better than to maintain such a complex charm for so long._ A tingle crawled across my body, and I felt the familiar cool of air as my skin was no longer encased in an illusory veil. As my head throbbed, I felt myself sink to my knees. My chest tightened, and I let out a loud, hacking cough.

She was on me in a second. "Who's there?" There was an unmistakable air of threat in her question. No doubt she had her wand out by now... There was a patter of feet against stone, and a swish of cloth. There was a painful jab, at the crown of my head as I felt Bell prod me with her wand. "Slytherin. Get up!"

Rising unsteadily to my feet, I pried my eyes open. My vision was a blur. I blinked twice. Bell's wand was still pointed at my chest, and her lip curled upon recognizing me. "Miles Bletchley?" She didn't lower her wand.

_Yes, that's me. We're even now... Why don't we end this confrontation and part amiably? _I remained silent.

Bell's brown eyes met mine. Normally warm, even friendly, they were steely today, and full of hostility. Out of the corner of my eye, I made out the subtle tremble of her hand, her knuckles white as she clutched her wand. "Here to finish me off, are you? I hope you know all your friends got sorely beaten today." Her voice was laced with venom.

_What? No!_ I was doing the exact opposite today, not that she would have a way to know that. After all I had done: my troubled conscience last night, trying to negotiate with Flint, and summoning a flock of birds to attack my own teammates just because I didn't want to hurt her... I had at least hoped I could talk to Bell on favorable terms.

"You'd better think twice before you say anything, Slytherin," she warned. "You lot can't be trusted, after what you did to your own schoolmates..." Bell's wand made her way to my throat. Despite her shorter stature, she was imposing, cold fury radiating from her. There was no way I could reach my wand without being hit by a hex. This would be complicated. How could I, an associate of her attackers, absolve myself of guilt?

"Look, Bell. I'm on your side..." I was having a hard time convincing even myself.

She scoffed. Her wand remained locked in its position.

"I didn't hurt anyone on your team..." I tried. This piqued her interest, her eyes widening slightly. She immediately reverted to her previous state of hostility, though. "Of course, you weren't at the battle in the first place, _coward_."

"No. Remember the crows that attacked Flint and Warrington? I... I conjured them. I would demonstrate, but I'm drained from the Disillusionment Charm I cast." I paused briefly, letting out a soft sigh. "I didn't intend to hurt them... It was never my intention to hurt anybody." Most of the wavering in my voice was genuine, and Bell's eyes softened.

She lowered her wand, breaking eye contact for a brief moment."You were there." Her face scrunched up in confusion. "I didn't see you because you were charmed, but why didn't you... fight with your teammates? You're with Slytherin, just like Flint and the others."

I froze, not expecting this question. What could I tell her? That I didn't do anything to her because she had helped me up after I fell? That I directed a murder of crows at my own teammates because I felt obligated to settle things with Bell? I doubted that she even recalled her actions. Had it been just yesterday? What would have happened had she never caught me? Would I have done the same? Or would I still be in the Hospital Wing?

"Are you feeling alright, Miles?" Bell's hostility had melted away: a look of confusion and curiosity had creeped onto her face. She rested her hand on my shoulder, and gave a slight smile. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine."

_Should I? _Her brown eyes betrayed her sincerity, and I had a feeling she believed me. There was no harm in doing so, I supposed. In a worse case scenario, we would end this conversation thinking no worse of each other than we had a day ago. Besides, the other Slytherins weren't around. "Let's continue walking towards the castle. I feel better now, and besides, you need to find McGonagall." I tried to buy some time: thankfully, she didn't pick up that I had overheard her exchange with Wood. She followed as I slowly strolled towards the castle grounds.

Bell looked at me expectantly, and I relented. "Bell, remember the last Quidditch match?" She nodded at me, confused. "Of course I do."

"Well, remember when you scored?" Her expression morphed into one of mirth, and she broke into a wide grin. "Definitely! I plucked the Quaffle from right under your nose! You should have seen the expression on your face when I reached for it: it was like as if it was your first time-"

Quickly, I interrupted, knowing what she was going to say next. "No. Before that." Chuckling, she asked, "The part where you fell off your broom, then had to be saved by me? I remember that pretty well." She seemed to take it in stride: evidently, the Gryffindor hero complex had rubbed off on her.

"Why'd you do that, though?" My voice took on a less conversational tone, and Bell picked up on the nature of my inquiry. I had questions, too, and this was one of the bigger ones. Bell had said it herself: I was a Slytherin, and her, a Gryffindor. We didn't mix, but she didn't take the opportunity to let me plummet to the ground. Had I been in her shoes, I would have watched the fall from a distance: a rival out of the match would put the opposition at a disadvantage. Apparently, Bell had not seen the situation that way.

A silence passed between the two of us as we walked slowly, Bell deep in thought. After a few moments, she turned to me, puzzled. "I don't know, do you really need an explanation? Wouldn't you have done the same?"

_No, I wouldn't._ "I see where you're coming from. Still, I never got the chance to thank you." I didn't have to agree with her, and my words reflected that. Bell wasn't satisfied, though. The friendliness in her voice disappeared as her face grew serious. Frowning at me, she pointedly asked: "You haven't answered my question, though. Why didn't you attack me today? Why didn't you do the same as your teammates?"

I allowed myself to flash her a small smile. "Flint wanted to harm you and the rest of the team, for his own petty revenge. I don't stand for injuring people, especially when those people have kept me out of trouble. That's why I didn't attack you today" paused for a moment, blinking. Savoring the look on Bell's face as she listened, I smiled slyly. "Wouldn't you have done the same?"

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**Do leave a review to tell me your thoughts on the story. What is your impression of both characters so far? **


	6. Post-Game Review

**Just a bit more interaction between the two before I wrap up this arc of the story. I hope you've been enjoying it so far!**

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McGonagall's office was located in the Defence against the Dark Arts tower, and overlooked the Training Grounds. It was on the first floor, so I was spared the task of climbing a long flight of stairs. Bell and I were now seated on a wooden bench, waiting quietly for McGonagall to see us. Pomfrey was probably already at the pitch: sooner or later, McGonagall would be informed.

The door creaked open, and a shaken-up Neville Longbottom slunk out. He cast Bell and I a strange look, and scampered off. Bell's look of confusion seemed to mirror mine, but we got up and walked in.

The office was spacious and comfortable: nothing like Snape's room in the dungeons. I wondered if she got the room due to her post as a Head of House, Transfiguration Professor, or as Deputy Headmistress. She gave me a pointed look, but her voice was even as she asked, "Ms Bell, Mr Bletchley. I trust you have come to see me to discuss something you find important." From her position behind her desk, I could see that she was calm. She probably won't feel that way much longer...

Bell shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her eyes flitted around the room's numerous decorations, before settling on McGonagall. "Professor McGonagall, it's a different matter altogether..." She was silent for a moment, looking for the right words to say. I decided to continue. Looking the Deputy Headmistress straight in the eye, I felt my heart thump. She had a way of peering into someone's thoughts.

"Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team captain was involved in an altercation with the Gryffindor Quidditch team." I paused for emphasis, and McGonagall frowned. "How serious was it? Who was involved?" she questioned, her voice professional and curt. I was a Slytherin, so she was probably expecting me to be one of the combatants. What I said now would be very important in acquitting me and the others of guilt.

"To begin with, it was Flint's idea. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that we lost the game yesterday, and decided to... assault the Gryffindors." This was news to both Bell and McGonagall, the former's eyes widening as the Deputy Headmistress peered at me from under her glasses. "And the rest of the team went along with it?" Doubt seeped into her voice.

"It wasn't like that! He threatened us with physical force if we didn't cooperate: everyone but Draco Malfoy had to agree. I'm not sure where Draco is now, I haven't seen him ever since the match yesterday." McGonagall took this in for a moment, absorbing the news about Malfoy too. I thought for a moment, deciding who to paint as innocent.

"Graham Montague and Lucian Bole didn't do much: it was mostly Peregrine Derrick and Cassius Warrington that hurt the Gryffindors the most: not to mention the fact Flint started it."

Bell nodded furiously in agreement, coming to my defence. "Miles didn't lift his wand, except to hinder Flint when he was attacking us. You have my word, Professor." McGonagall stared at her for a long time, seemingly deciding whether her words held any truth.

"I believe you, Ms. Bell and Mr. Bletchley. Where are the others involved now?" The determined expression on Bell's face was replaced by one of melancholy.

"On the pitch, Professor. As soon as the fight ended, Oliver went to get help from Madam Pomfrey. Almost everyone on both teams are injured, except for me, Angelina, Oliver and Bletchley. Lucian Bole and Draco Malfoy weren't at the fight at all, and Harry had to miss training." McGonagall gave an understanding nod, but the stern expression etched on her face remained.

"Thank you for coming today. I will see to this matter." There was an edge of finality to McGonagall's voice, as she dismissed us. With a quick flick of the wand, the doors of the office swung open. Bell and I stood up to leave. She seemed relieve, flashing me a grin. I nodded at her, exiting the office.

"It took a lot of courage for you to come here, Mr. Bletchley." The professor's parting words stopped me as I stepped into the hallway. Courage. That was an interesting thought: a brave Slytherin. Had that suggegstion come from anyone but the Head of Gryffindor House herself, I would have dismissed it as a foolish notion. Professor McGonagall, however, was always frank with students: something I respected her for. Looking back once more, McGonagall gave me an appreciative nod, a look of approval displaying on her hawklike eyes. I felt my lips curl up, and slowly closed the door behind me.

As comforting as her words may have been, she didn't know everything, though. What I did today wasn't about standing up to my fears, it wasn't about righting a wrong. It was about repaying a personal debt to someone else: no more, no less. And today, that was settled. I was still a Slytherin at heart: ambition, cunning and power.

"Professor McGonagall's right, you know." Bell spoke up quietly from my left. I could detect the weight of her words as she stared seriously at me. "I don't think any other Slytherin would have defied Flint, let alone go against him. You're brave for doing that."

"I didn't do that because of courage, Bell." The words were tumbling out of my mouth before I could think of a proper answer. "You saved me from injury, so I did the same. That's it. There was nothing to stand up to: Flint basically had no more real authority short of getting his lackeys to harass me. I wasn't a hero during the fight either, I summoned those birds from the sidelines." That was technically the truth.

Bell pouted, looking unconvinced. "It's one thing to protect your friends, but to protect a stranger is something else altogether. I still think that was a good thing to do." It seemed like she doubted my Slytherin qualities. Then again, persistence was one quality nearly all Quidditch players would possess, regardless of house.

This was getting nowhere. I sighed before looking away from her, breaking eye contact. "Whatever you say, Bell."

We walked along the corridor in silence, but I could feel her eyes probing me from behind. The occasional student that still wandered the corridors of the castle now paid us no heed, despite the fact we were still in Quidditch robes. After about ten minutes of my brisk pacing, we arrived at a familiar stone wall on the first floor of the Viaduct Tower. I gazed lazily at Bell. "Gryffindor Tower is that way," I prompted, gesturing to the exit of the tower.

"Where're you headed to?" _Looks like the location of the Slytherin common room was still a well-kept secret._ Looking around to ascertain none of my housemates were present, I folded my arms. "My room."

Bell stared suspiciously at the nondescript stone wall, unsatisfied with my answer. "I'll see you tomorrow during breakfast, then." Whipping around, she hurried out of the Viaduct, her robes fluttering behind her. I watched her diminutive figure get smaller as she faded into the distance, before returning my attention to the stone wall.

_Two bricks from the left... Five bricks up..._ I traced my finger along the stone tile. Crouching down, I whispered the password. "Natrix." The stone wall slowly parted down the middle, the two parts silently sliding to the side, as they always had. The moment I stepped into the Slytherin corridors, the stone wall rejoined quickly, concealing the entrance to our common room.

One hour and one shower later, I was in the Great Hall for dinner. Bell wasn't at her table yet when I arrived, and she wasn't here now that fifteen minutes had passed. I was now comfortably seated at my usual spot at the fourth year's section. My lip curled distastefully as I observed Pansy Parkinson rest her head on the lap of a simpering Draco Malfoy. Though I was too far away to hear what they were saying, Malfoy was probably whispering sweet nothings to her. Bootlicking was the only reason he attained anything of value, that cowardly little rat...

"Hey, Miles." Scott Vaisey plopped himself next to me, and I returned his greeting, tearing my eyes from Malfoy. I swept my eyes across the rest of Slytherin's table, noticing the high number of empty seats in the hall. They're probably still in the Hospital Wing. Idly, I took the first bite of my dinner. It was a pot roast, with a spinach stew. I hated spinach, pushing it aside, I slowly took another bite of my dinner. As I watched the entrance, I spotted the familiar figure of Flint heatedly walking towards the table. I frowned.

"Something bothering you?" There was a touch of genuine concern in Scott's voice. _Just Quidditch, Scott. None of your concern. _"No, I'm fine," I grunted. With that, Vaisey returned to his food.

Flint quickly approached me. "Miles, I didn't see you at the Hospital Wing. Are you feeling alright?" There was a furrow in his brow: he seemed genuinely concerned. I felt a brief twinge of guilt, but remembered what Flint had tried to do. Keeping my face straight, I replied, "After you were stunned, Bole and I...retreated. We went to the Hospital Wing to get help, and met Wood there. It's a pity we couldn't hex him, because Pomfrey was there. I'm fine, though." I threw in that last bit for good measure, knowing the only person he hated as much as the Weasley twins was Oliver Wood, who Flint maintained was nothing without Potter as a Seeker. Captain rivalry only amplified his hatred for Wood: indeed, a flash of anger crossed Flint's eyes when I mentioned the Gryffindor's captain name, but Flint let it slide.

He seemed to consider my words for a moment, before nodding slowly. Glad to hear you're okay: Malfoy's the one who needs a... _talking to._" With that, he moved on to the next section of the Slytherin table.

Scott had been listening to the exchange. "You got in a fight?" I ignored him for a moment, chewing slowly on the roast. Scott didn't seem to take the hint. "You got in a fight... with the Gryffindors?" I sighed. He really wants to know...

"Not here. I'll tell you about it tonight, alright?" He nodded, and I was left alone once again. To my left, I could hear Parkinson screeching as Flint berated Malfoy, and to my right, Bole poked at his pie, nursing his right arm. Vaisey reached for a platter of Cauldron Cakes, offering one to me.

The chocolate and caramel crumbled apart in my mouth, as I looked around the Great Hall, bored. Flint was doing an unusually good job keeping his cool: McGonagall must not have decided on an appropriate punishment for him and the rest of the team. _I wonder if I would be let off the hook: the professor seemed more relieved than angry at me after my explanation, but the other Slytherins would definitely offer differing explanations._ It then occured to me that it would be mine and Bole's word against the three Chasers and Derrick. Warrington already received a suspension last year for rough play, and since Flint was technically an eighth year... It looked like I wasn't going to be the one with a year-long detention. Better them than me.

Helping myself to a final Cauldron Cake, I left my empty plate and the untouched bowl of spinach on the table as I headed back to the dungeons. Scott mirrored me as I stood up, walking behind me. I was briefly reminded of Bell and I's walk earlier, but that thought was quickly dispelled as he started to chatter on. As usual, I listened to him, adding the occasional comment or murmuring in agreement once in a while. Scott talked mostly about his Muggle Studies class, complaining how he was the only one without a partner._ That's because you're the only Slytherin in the class. _We occupied ourselves with chatter as we made our way back to the dorms.

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**School's started again for me, so my chapters will probably come more slowly. I've got a backlog of chapters (all the way up to 9 waiting to be published, but updates after that will be less frequent. **

**Do point out what you like about my characters so far: are they believable? Realistic?**


	7. Commentary

**Hmm, this story has taken a pretty interesting turn as I wrote it. It seems to focus more on Miles: a Slytherin slice-of-life, if you may. Don't worry, though, you'll get some more of Katie soon enough ;)**

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In time, we reached the dormitory we shared. Scott lounged on his bed, but our conversation in the Hall had not slipped his mind. "Well, Miles. I think you owe me a little story." He broke into a cheeky grin, and I gave a dramatic sigh, inwardly feeling an odd mix of trepidation and relief. It was nice to have another person to talk to for once.

Ryan Palmer was the only other person in the large room we shared, but his nose was buried in a book, his back facing us. Scott noticed the potential eavesdropper nonetheless, and quickly cast a Muffling Charm on each of us. "There. Now you can start."

"What do you know about today afternoon?" I needed to establish his knowledge about the situation, and work my way from there. With any luck, I could dispel the rumors surrounding... the circumstances of my actions.

Scott was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "I heard from Lucian that you skedaddled, but apart from that? Not much."

"Well, to begin with, it was Flint's idea." It was a well-known fact that he loathed the Gryffindors. "He was mad when we lost yesterday." Scott had been at the game too, and definitely saw that crushing defeat.

"Yeah, but it was all Cassius Warrington's fault, wasn't it? He caused a few fouls and let them get a free shot in." He bought what I was saying: not that I had said anything _untrue _so far, but he was also piecing together the story for himself.

I scoffed. "I'd say it's more of Malfoy. He probably couldn't catch the Snitch if you stuffed it down his mouth." Scott gave a small chuckle at that, but reverted to his curious self again. "What does that have to do with today, anyway?"

"Well, I've pretty much explained it all. Flint concocted some plan to seek revenge on them, and naturally that involved getting in a fight." Scott nodded. He reached under his bed, pulling out a small carton of Bertie's Bott Every Flavour Beans. Popping one into his mouth, he inquired yet again, "That explains the fight. But what about you backing out of it?"

I reached over and took a bean, chewing on it thoughtfully. It tasted vaguely like cinnamon. "Scott, what did Lucian Bole tell you about today?"

He put another bean into his mouth. "Well, he said halfway into the fight you were gone. He thought you might have been scared away by a flock of birds one of the Gryffindors conjured up." Scott smirked at me. "I didn't know you were scared of some canaries, Miles."

"That's not true!" I protested. Before I could continue, I bit on my lip. Should he know? What would he think of me? What could the others think of me, if word got out I attacked the Gryffindors? Scott was a good friend, but sometimes he let things slip. Better safe than sorry. "Well, they were a bunch of crows. I ran after one of them nearly pecked my eye out." Scott studied me intensely for a second.

"You're not telling me everything, Miles." His voice darkened, and stared straight into my eyes. Just as quickly, though. He grinned roguishly again. "Your right thumb twitches when you're trying to think of something to say, and you always blink too much when you're nervous. Work on it, _Slytherin_," he teased. His voice had regained its cheerful tone, but he spoke the truth. I had to tell the truth, then.

"You got me, Scott." I held out my hands in mock surrender, smiling darkly at him. Where to start with, where to start with? "I was at the fight... I was the one who summoned the crows, I can show you again if you don't believe me."

"I do, Miles. But why? Didn't the crows attack the Slytherins? Did you run only after you lost control of them?" He got more and more confused.

"I didn't loose control, Scott. I had to get the crows to attack them, otherwise more people would get hurt." Ugh. I just dug myself in deeper: now Scott'd be asking me why I needed to protect them.

Instead, he nodded in understanding. "Flint does get violent too often. But if you didn't want to get into trouble, why didn't you just wipe their memories? I hear Flint himself's pretty good at doing that. His mother's an Oblivator, I think, and you're pretty good at doing that yourself. Why attack the Slytherins?"

"Hmmph. I should have thought of that at the time. I suppose it's too late, though." I feigned agreement, and Scott seemed to buy it.

"I see, Miles. You should keep your cool more often, I find it helps very often. Wouldn't want you going soft on the Gryffindors, eh?" he joked, chuckling as he replaced the carton of beans under his bed. He seemed done with the conversation, taking out a book from his trunk and turning the pages open. It still bothered me, though. Going soft was what Bell had done yesterday and it probably helped me more than it hurt. Why was it so bad for us to help others, sometimes?

Scott must have read my thoughts, for he looked up from his book, and added, "Look, Miles. If you ever want to talk, I'm here for you. You know, you bottle yourself up too often for your own good."

I'll take you up on that offer. Since he already knew that story, there was no harm in telling him the full truth. It'd be nice to talk to him some more: he always was sympathetic in my quarrels with Warrington, and tended to offer advice when Flint was being brutal in training, or I simply needed help.

"You're right, Scott. I do shut myself up too often. Could you keep this a secret, though?" It wasn't like the Quidditch team already knew, but I doubted that they paid it much mind. What I was about to tell Scott though, was the real reason for my actions. He probably wouldn't judge me too much, but I needed to keep this between the two of us. He raised an eyebrow: it seemed he didn't expect me to seriously accept his listening ear, but he didn't mind. "Alright. What do you want to get off your chest?"

"Remember the match?" Scott nodded. He was always there to support the Slytherin games, even if he though he didn't actually qualify to be on the team. "Remember when I fell off the broom?" To this, Scott shook his head. "I don't remember that part."

"Well, I slipped. I probably would have ended up in the Hospital Wing for a a week or two," I clarified. It was true: Graham Montague fell from roughly the same distance, and ended up spending three days recovering, and another four under observation.

"But you're fine right now." Scott seemed perplexed about this. "The only time I remember someone falling from a height and coming out okay was Potter, and he had Dumbledore to save him. You did fall from high up, didn't you?"

"I was getting to that. I fell from about a hundred meters off the ground." Scott's eyes widened as he took in this information. Still, I continued before he could probe further. "Still, a Gryffindor Chaser, Bell, saved me." His bewilderment turned to confusion, as Scott seemed to ponder this briefly, but it was in vain."That name doesn't really ring a bell for me, sorry."

"Blonde hair, brown eyes. About this tall-" I motioned somewhere around my ears, and Scott seemed to understand. Clapping his hands together, he exclaimed, "Oh, Katie Bell! The one Lucian Bole said had the flattest chest?" Well, it was true, but I felt my cheeks warm uncomfortably for a second before I continued.

"Yeah, that's the one. Anyway, she saved me. Grabbed my hand, made sure I was fine, lifted me to my broom, and all." It would probably raise less questions if I left out the part where she stole the Quaffle, so I stayed silent, letting Scott come to his own conclusions.

"Is that why you left them alone today?" His face was impassive, but his voice had an edge of doubt to it. "They saved you... so you saved them?" I nodded. He was taking it better than Flint or even Bole would have.

"Well, if that's what you think is right, I can't stop you." He flipped through his book again, finally settling on a dog-eared page. "I wouldn't have done the same, though." With that, he returned to his book- The Handyman's Guide to Power Tools. I myself decided to start working on a History of Magic essay.

It was good for me to talk about my problems with Scott. Tomorrow, I would probably see Bell at breakfast too. It seemed my slip-up had just made a pretty big impact on my decisions, and I wasn't too sure if this was a good or bad thing.

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**I don't think I have a large problem with writing dialogue, though I'm unsure if characterization in this story is distinct enough. What do you think? **


	8. Breakfast

**This chapter could have taken a few different directions, but I eventually had to settle for one of them. See if you can spot the leftover plot ideas in the chapter. **

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"There's something different about today's food," Scott declared, scrutinizing his white pudding. He poked at the meat with a fork, before peering at me. "What spells do you know that check for poison?"

"Who'd want to do that to the food?" I frowned. Scott's hunches usually ended up true, but the notion that someone would tamper with our food seemed absurd. "If you really want to know, though. It'd probably be Lorem Uenenus." He nodded his thanks, and turned back to his plate, forehead scrunched up in concentration.

Scott carefully took out his wand- 10 inches long, hemlock and with Veela hair, and gestured cautiously at his dish. "Lorem Ueneus!" There was a faint white glow from the tip, which fizzled out quickly. A few Slytherins turned to look at the commotion, but quickly returned to their food. Lucian Bole, on the other hand, had set down his fork, quizzically watching us.

Annoyed, I wrangled the wand out of Scott's spindly fingers. "You're doing it wrongly." I jabbed the wand forward sharply. "Lorem Uenenus!" A silver shimmer briefly enveloped Scott's plate, before dying. "Looks like nothing's wrong. I'll get back to eating."

He snatched his wand back, gently tucking it into his robe. "Never hurts to be cautious," he huffed. I returned to my breakfast: a few pieces of toast and a hard-boiled egg. Mid-bite, it occurred to me that Bell had wanted to meet me. Quickly, I gulped down the last few morsels of my breakfast, before leaning back to observe the Gryffindors' table. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff's tables were in my way, however, making it difficult to see if she was there. I bandied about the idea of going over, before deciding that showing my face to the Gryffindors was not a good idea. It would have been worse if I was Flint or Warrington, but they probably thought me to be involved in the fight nonetheless.

I'd probably find her afterwards in that case We would have combined Herbology classes in a few days: she could approach me then if she wanted to. I doubt she really meant to talk, anyway. Watching as my used plates and utensils disappeared, I let my mind wander. There was probably another fifteen minutes till my first class: Transfiguration. I didn't find the subject particularly difficult, so I wasn't too worried about it.

Would Montague, Warrington or Derrick be the next captain of the team? Flint's run was over: even with an extra year in Hogwarts, he couldn't field a winning team. Cassius Warrington was far from exemplary: Snape was sure to notice his fouls during games, and he was ultimately the one who decided who got the position. Graham Montague was Flint's favourite, and I personally liked him too. He used to practice with me, and offered me Quidditch advice. Still, he seemed to have an alarmingly poor academic record, and Snape most likely didn't like him for pulling down Slytherin's average. Then again, the only one Snape seems to like is that damn Malfoy.

That left Peregrine Derrick. He had the brutal efficiency of Warrington combined with the cunning of Montague, but there were rumours his father and Snape loathed each other. That, combined with a Quidditch accident caused by Derrick's enthusiastic use of the bat around Snape made him a poor contender for the position of captain. It was funny to see Snape's hooked nose get bent further, but I doubted Snape saw it that way.

Could it be me? I entertained the fleeting idea that Bole or I could be the next captain, but quickly dismissed it. Snape probably wouldn't have wanted us to be the leader of the team, as much as he disliked his current candidates. Hopefully, the same went for Malfoy.

It was probably time for me to get to class now. No point sticking around, I'm done with my food anyway. Sliding out of my seat, I looked at Scott. Instead of accompanying me as he usually did, however, he waved his hand absentmindedly, gesturing for me to go on. "I'm expecting an owl here from my parents, you go on ahead."

I cast a final glance at Scott, before slowly making my way towards the exit of the Great Hall. Walking past a half-emptied Ravenclaw table and then brushing through a gaggle of chattering first-year Hufflepuffs, I craned my neck as I neared the Gryffindor table. If you wanted to see me today, Bell, now would be a good time to do so, I mused. Some other time then. I left the Great Hall, turning right as usual. The Transfiguration classroom was only three flights of stairs and a few turns away.

"Miles!" Out of the usual commotion, I picked up a girl calling my name. In spite of myself, I felt a grin cross my face as she jogged up to me, a stack of books under one arm.

"You're early, Bell," I started the conversation, watching her face flush as she briskly walked to keep up. She clutched her jaw, irked, before she realized I was jesting. Nevertheless, she rolled her eyes. "Ugh, enough with the jokes. I've got enough of them, sitting beside the Weasley twins today."

"They're really that bad, huh?" I had heard tales of their exploits, but had never been on the receiving ends of one of their pranks: yet. Still, their infamous reputations as tricksters surely had merit. Bell nodded furiously at that statement.

"You don't know how bad it is, Miles." She gave me a wry grin. "Just two weeks ago, they laced my breakfast pumpkin juice with some potion of theirs. My voice was two octaves higher for the rest of the day!"

I let out a throaty chuckle. "At least they sound fun, Bell. The people I hang out with are absolutely useless. Malfoy and Warrington probably have enough space between their ears to store their broomsticks."

"The Weasleys are great friends once you get to know them well. They smuggle in Firewhiskey from Hogsmeade for Common Room parties often: Merlin knows where that comes from." I raised an eyebrow, and Bell continued, "The worst they'll do to a friend would be to shrink your head. What they do to people they don't like, on the other hand, is completely different."

From across the hall, Darius Berrow waved at me. I returned the gesture absentmindedly, imploring Bell to continue.

"Anyway, one year they got in trouble with Filch for something stupid they pulled: when they were let in the supply room to get polish for the trophies, they absolutely wreaked havoc! I heard they nicked Filch's diaries and some other things of his, and turned all the tools into chocolate! Professor McGonagall had to help transfigure the things back."

"They sound like interesting people to know." My voice wasn't half as disinterested as I felt: I was painfully aware of the fact I was making small talk. I never did so: today was the exception. We were almost at my classroom now, and all we had talked about so far were her Quidditch teammates, not even herself.

"Still, Bell, did you actually want to discuss something? Or were you trying to make conversation?" My words came out harsher than I intended them to be, and I inwardly chided myself for not possessing tact. Bell wasn't fazed, though.

"I'm just here to talk, Miles. Isn't that what friends do?" Her tone was one of genuine confusion. She combed a few fingers through her blonde hair as we climbed the third flight of stairs.

Friends? I wasn't expecting that, not at all. Our most meaningful interactions had all occurred within the span of two days: first, she saved me from breaking ten bones, only to steal the Quaffle from me. Following that, I protected her from my own teammates by attacking them from the sidelines. We then went on to testify to McGonagall, before we had the bare minimum of a conversation. A friend should be someone you can come to depend on and confide in, someone who's supportive, not just anyone who waltzes in. It seemed Bell's definition of friendship differed from mine.

"Yeah, Bell... That's what friends do." I blinked. Were we friends, though? I felt my hands quiver badly: Scott would have scolded me if I were here. Bell didn't pick up on this. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes vacant. A faint smile crossed her face. Her eyes snapped back to mine.

"That's good to hear," she chirped. "I'd love to stay and talk, but Professor Lupin wants me to come in earlier for Defence classes now. I enjoyed your company today, Miles." I supposed I did too, in an odd sort of way. It was a refreshing change of topic from listening to monologues, which was often the case with Scott.

"You too, I'll see you around, Bell." Her bemused look never left her face as she hurried down the hallway, disappearing into the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom.

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**As usual, please leave a review. **


	9. Confrontation

**This wraps up the first arc of the story, and I can move on to focus on the main characters now.**

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The_ average Porlock is two feet tall when fully grown, and juvenile Porlocks take up to eight years to fully mature..._ Propping open my copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, I hunched over my parchment, quill in hand. My Care for Magical Creatures Essay was only due next Monday, but it never hurt to start early. The sooner I was done, the sooner I could move on to other things. 'The mane of the Porlock, its most identifiable trait begins developing at the third year.' No, that didn't sound right. Erasing the offending phrase with a quick 'text delere', I thought of new ways to reword it.

Still, my mind wandered back to my encounter with Bell on the way to class yesterday. I hadn't had time to talk to her since, beyond a few greetings being exchanged along the corridors. She seemed to view me in a different light from the other Slytherins: her lips puckered and her forehead scrunched up when Flint and Derrick when she passed them, while she merely avoided eye contact with Malfoy and Warrington, opting instead to walk straight by them and converse with her housemates. She offered a warm 'hello' and exchanged some passing comments about classes, but we never did engage in another conversation. Yet.

I smacked my lips in frustration as I remembered I still had a foot of parchment left to fill on Porlocks. As I skimmed my book, the door swung open behind me, and there was the dull thump of footsteps. Out of habit, I turned back.

Lucian Bole's stocky figure approached me, his brows set in its usual furrow. His eyes darted away the moment they met mine. "You'd best come with me. I think Flint wants to speak to us." There was a sour taste in my mouth, but I stood up nonetheless and followed Bole as he skulked back to the Common Room.

Flint. Quidditch practice was over for the rest of the year, now that we had been knocked out of the tournament. What could he possibly want with us? Snape would be announcing the new captain, and Flint was not the kind of person who would offer us warm words of encouragement to spur us on for the next season. His competitive streak meant that each loss left him bitter and resentful, just like when he had fought those Gryffindors...

Of course. This was about the fight, wasn't it? Malfoy was bound to get it now...

The common room was largely vacated. Flint was standing behind a table, arms folded as he scanned the room. Behind him stood Derrick and Montague. While Montague and Derrick remained largely impassive, Warrington's pointed face morphed into an expression of distaste when he spotted me. Malfoy's back was to me, but I could see beads of sweat running down his platinum blonde hair, his knuckles white as they gripped the table surrounding Flint and him. Hesistantly, I walked up beside Malfoy.

Warrington strolled in from the entrance to his dormitory, arms swinging. There was nothing to his behavior to suggest he was fearful, unlike Bole and Malfoy. The door slammed shut behind him, and Bole flinched at the sound.

"It looks like all of us are here." The grimace on Flint's face softened, but he continued watching us nonetheless. "Let's talk Quidditch, shall we?"

There were a few tense nods, and a dramatic yawn from Montague, and Flint carried on. "Three days ago, the Gryffindors defeated us in Quidditch. Two days ago, we crushed them on their pitch in return." It appeared Flint had a very loose definition of the word 'crushed', but the dangerously quiet edge to his voice meant I knew better than to interrupt. "Yesterday, however, McGonagall approached me, and gave me some devastating news. Today, I have to share it with you."

The swagger Derrick had been carrying himself with faded as he stared at Flint. Warrington clenched his fists, revealing white as he let out a snarl. It seemed they already knew the news.

"For the benefits of the juniors on the team, McGonagall found out about the attack. Someone told her about it, and she was going to suspend me. That was probably going to happen for the rest of you too." Montague gave a grim nod, and Derrick's blue eyes flitted around the room. Bole's pale skin lost even more colour.

Suspend us? _Didn't Bell and I tell her we were innocent? And what about Bole and Montague?_

"Snape tried to talk her down, and he succeeded. Me, Derrick, and Warrington now have detention for the rest of the fucking year! Every night!" Flint's hand jerked violently about as he gestured, his face reddening. "And I don't know why she deems you innocent, Montague, but he only has three weeks worth of detention." Whirling upon Bole and me now, he snapped, "You two. What have you heard from McGonagall?"

Bole blanched. "I don't know!" he choked, taking a step back. Flint's black eyes were upon me now. "And you, Bletchley?"

I blinked. "She hasn't said anything to me so far, either." Flint's breathing quickened. I tried again, "Perhaps she'll tell us soon."

There was a nearly imperceptible twitch in Flint's left eye. "You're lying," he loudly declared. "She visited all of us during class. She would definitely have time to see you."

I couldn't possibly tell him that I told McGonagall about the incident! Besides, the Gryffindors didn't have their memories wiped. I probably could try pinning the blame on them: at this point in time, I suspected Flint's blind fury would latch onto anything that was thrown at him. This would deflect blame away from Bole and Montague, and more importantly, me.

"Look, Flint. Why're you blaming your own teammates? The Gryffindors could have ratted on you. It's not like you managed to Oblivate them... seeing how Malfoy wasn't there that day. Who's to say they didn't tell McGonagall about the fight, and single you out?" I hoped Flint didn't detect the waver in my voice when I made eye contact with him.

He seemed to give this some thought, his breathing slowing and the red leaving his cheeks. "You have a point, Miles. The Gryffindors probably did it. Any ideas who could have done it?" He turned away from me, and surveyed the entire team this time.

Warrington called out, "Might have been that damn Oliver Wood. He was the last one standing." Montague regarded this new information with a pursed lip.

"I think we didn't get Johnson and Bell. Could it have been them?" Montague chimed in.

_You're supposed to be on my side, Montague._ Still, I could deflect the blame and direct Marcus's fury elsewhere. "The Weasleys could have done it too. They still had their memories intact, anyway."

"Anyway, it's not like we can fight them again, right? They'd be all over us again. McGonagall and the teachers, I mean," Bole added nervously, not eager for another fight.

Flint's face darkened as he took in the information. He seemed to realize that revenge again would be hard to commit, since he was on a tight leash. The speculation about the culprit's identity didn't seem to be a problem with him anymore either, now that he had calmed down. That didn't change his attitude much, however.

"There's nothing much we can do about it then," Flint concluded. He clenched his teeth again. "Meeting's over. Draco, I'd like to speak to you." Malfoy immediately stiffened, but I paid him no mind as Bole and I headed back to our dormitory. He didn't deserve our pity.

I still wondered what McGonagall would do to Bole and I. Montague, who I had named as a non-aggressor, received punishment nonetheless. Had the Gryffindors named him as an attacker? If that was the case, would they point fingers at me too? I was sure some of them would be eager to incriminate any Slytherin, especially the twins. The Weasley family as a whole seemed to have an irrational hatred of my house, and I doubted they were an exception.

With luck, my plan would still hold, and I would get off lightly. As I headed back to my room to resume work on my essay, I wondered who the whistleblower was. Would I ever find out?

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**If you have any ideas or requests for future chapters, feel free to contact me and I'll see what I can do about them!**


	10. Classmates

**Any thoughts on that new story Rowling just published? I'm glad she gave us a little taste of the Wizarding World again!**

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"Uh, I was wondering if you could help me with something." Scott spoke up as we were walking to the greenhouse. He stopped in his tracks for a second, rifling through a few loose sheets of papers in his hands. Pulling out a diagram, he asked, "What allows the Wiggentree's potential to manifest? I know it's triggered by touching-" he gestured to an annotation he nade, "but what's the exact mechanism?"

Hmm. The Wiggentrees were often guarded by Bowtruckles, and I remembered something from _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungus_ about symbiotic energy, but it didn't go into detail beyond that. I gave a small shrug. "It's related to the relationship they have with Bowtruckles. I think you'll have to get your copy of _Magical Beasts_ for more information."

Scott gave a nervous smile. "You know we'll be working on them today, right?" It probably wouldn't be a problem, though. For particularly difficult assignments, Sprout usually let us form groups of three or four. Phylis Underhill from our year, often ended up in my group: her Herbology skills were impressive.

"Don't worry about it, I'm sure we can group up with Phylis again." Scott seemed to lighten up. "We definitely should do that." We walked the remaining distance in silence, Scott occasionally stooping to pick down a loose piece of paper he'd dropped.

The greenhouse was chaotic as usual. There were about thirty students, due to it being a combined class with the Gryffindors. I was fairly sure I had spotted Bell was in the crowd, but instead opted to survey the classroom. All of us were packed around a trench in the middle of the room filled with mulch. Towards the back were about ten potted saplings. This greenhouse would be reserved for this term's project: raising Wiggentrees. The results of this project would be used later in a Potions class this year. Our grades later would depend on this project too: not that it mattered much to me, I had received an Outstanding in Potions last year.

Sprout and a fourth-year Gryffindor I didn't recognize trotted in carrying cauldrons of a frothing cerulean potion, setting down in front of us. The professor wiped her hands on her robes hurriedly, before silencing us by addressing the class.

"Welcome to another lesson of Herbology! As you all already know, we'll be starting on a new project today! We'll be raising Wiggentrees for the next eight weeks, and with the help of the growth potions Cormac and I just brought in, they'll be done right in time for Professor Snape to teach you how to brew the Wiggenweld potion." She clasped her hands excitedly, and the chatter in the room rose to a crescendo as we speculated on the difficulty of the upcoming course. The brief murmurs amongst us ceased as Sprout continued on with her introduction.

"I'd like you all to pair up now. The Wiggentree is a rather delicate species to care for, so this will not be an individual assignment." Scott cast me a glance, and I nodded. He was a reliable partner, and a good friend. He brushed past Conrad Patton, walking to my side. "Looks like we'll have to actually put in work this time," he quipped.

Sprout seemed satisfied when everyone in the room had a partner, clapping her hands together. "Now, I'll be pairing you off. For the purposes of inter-house bonding, each pair will be assigned to another pair from the other house." There were a few displeased whispers, and an audible groan from someone over at the Gryffindors. Chloe Wenlock sniggered loudly for a second.

"I'm sure you'll all learn to work with each other." Sprout's voice was even, but tinged with disapproval at our reaction. "The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws got along just fine."

She started to wade through the throng of students, partnering up the pairs. I narrowed my eyes as Phylis Underhill and Lina Wespurt were grouped with Cormac McLaggen and Harold Homme. That was surely going to be the powerhouse for the lesson. Lucian Bole and Waryne Harvey were then paired off with Kirk Pritchard and Quentin Knight, much to Bole's displeasure. Before I had time to point out the hostilities though, Sprout was upon me.

"Scott Vaisey and Miles Bletchley!" she bubbled. "I think you'd be a great fit with..." she scanned the room, tiptoing briefly. "Leanne Dobbs-" I didn't know her that well. I reckoned her Herbology grades were average to above-average, and she seemed content to keep to herself in class. "-and Katie Bell!" Sprout beamed at us.

I walked over to join my new partners, a small smile spread across my face. It was genuine enough, I supposed. Dobbs's bored expression vanished. Eyebrows waggling, she turned to her partner. Bell herself seemed pleased to be grouped with me. She flashed me a toothy grin. With a glow still in her eyes, she appraised Scott. He fidgeted, rubbing his nose.

Dobbs was the first to break the silence. "We could have ended up with much worse partners." It was true: from behind us, I could hear the heated voices of Knight and Homme as they loudly argued something. The fact I had already known Bell and worked well with Scott was a bonus. Dobbs was mostly still a stranger, though I doubted Bell kept bad company.

"Definitely," added Scott. "I've heard some things about you from Miles, Katie." Dobbs cast her a knowing look, but if she noticed, Bell didn't say anything.

As Sprout moved on to another group, I walked towards what appeared to be the healthiest potted sapling, the rest following behind me. "This looks like it'd be the easiest to take care of. We should claim it before the other groups do." Dobbs nodded, as Bell stooped over to take a closer look at it. As she reached out to prod it, Scott nudged her hand away gently.

"Don't touch it. You might damage the sapling." Bell frowned, but stood back up.

By now, Sprout had finished assigning groups. Apart from us, and a trio in the corner, none of the students seemed happy with their grouping. It'd probably affect their grades too. Their loss.

"Are you two any good at Herbology?" _Better to get to the point. _It wasn't like I could change their proficiency at the subject, but it would be a small comfort if they were confident with the lesson. Dobbs narrowed her eyes, miffed at the question. Perhaps I had been too blunt.

Scott's shake of the head was nearly imperceptible, but undoubtedly directed at me. Smiling slightly at the pair, he began, "We'll all find out sooner or later. Since we'll be working together for the next five weeks or so, I hope we get to know each other." They had shown no animosity to us so far, and I hoped it would hold. Though Dobbs was hesitant in her interactions, I hoped Bell's... friendship with me would tide us through the Slytherin-Gryffindor hostilities. It would be nice to make another friend too.

A look of mild surprise crossed Dobbs's face. It seemed she wasn't expecting someone from our house to be interacting so freely with a Gryffindor. Then again, Scott's diplomacy surprised me at times too. Bell smiled kindly at him, but motioned for us to turn arond. Sprout was starting with the next part of the lesson.

"You need to plant it in deeper." Hastily, I pressed the sapling into the hole Bell had dug. "Not like that!" Dobbs shrieked. "You'll damage it!" With a sigh, I released the spade. It clattered to the floor of the greenhouse, and Dobbs shot me a scandalized look.  
"We'd probably get the work done more quickly if you did it," I reasoned. She glared at me, but stooped over to resume the gardening nonetheless. Forcing myself to maintain the neutral expression on my face, I winced inwardly as Bell scowled. Tact never was my strong suit. Scott was off: to consult Sprout, he had said.

"We need to add the fertilizer to the mulch now," Scott read from the instructional parchment Sprout had provided. "Add half the vial of Stercor- that's the violet potion, Miles- drop by drop." I did as he said, shakily tipping the vial on its side. The potion trickled out quickly enough, and I recorked the potion. "Now it's your turn, Katie."

From her spot opposite me, Bell bent over to add in part of a Neutralizing Potion. I observed as she deftly uncorked the potion before gently letting the solution flow into the soil. _Bell's good at Herbology, and I think Dobbs might have a certain inclination for it too. I probably could get them to teach me something..._

As Bell spread the leaves of the sapling apart to administer a salve to the bark, there was a spark of...energy? Excitement? Something within her seemed to come alive whenever she handled plants: it resembled the heartfelt glow in Oliver Wood's eyes whenever someone mentioned Quidditch, but with maturity but yet youthfulness added in. _I wish I could be half as passionate as her. _My area of expertise was mainly in Charms and Potions, but my energy and zeal towards the subjects was never as bright. It was rare for anyone in Slytherin to be as impassioned too: Scott viewed Muggle Studies and Potions with more curiousity than passion. Quidditch was a way for Montague to connect with the other Slytherins, while Flint used it to fulfill his competitive streak and advance his career. Bell's genuine interest in a subject was refreshing.

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**Thanks for reading the story so far: if you've stuck around till the tenth chapter, do at least announce your presence!**


	11. The Bet

**Slightly longer chapter here: most of the chapters I write from now on will tend to be slightly longer. As always, leave a suggestion!**

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"Hmmph. I still don't get why we need to learn how to cast a Patronus. The Dementors are all guarding Azkaban, anyway." I irritatably thumbed through Scott's Defence against the Dark Arts notebook. The creased pages were dotted with annotations in his cramped handwriting: the instructions on how to successfully form a Patronus didn't make much sense either.

"Apart from the fact Lupin's giving us extra credit, it'd be a good spell to know for the OWLs, and in case we ever need to evade trouble." A wide grin spread across his freckled face. "Trouble in the form of Dementors looking to suck out your soul. Besides, it'd be fun to find out what animal form your Patronus takes."

_Patronus animal forms often share qualities with the caster: personality types of the caster are often shared with the animal produced,_ Scott had scrawled. I pondered this for a moment. My mother's Patronus had taken the form of a hyena, and I wondered if mine would be similar. What would Scott's be? Probably a groundhog. I chuckled audibly, prompting an odd look from Scott.

"Lupin did say producing even a non-corporeal Patronus was difficult, so don't expect casting one on your first try," Scott added seriously. "Give it a shot, anyway. Think of a happy memory, and draw a few circles in the air."

Getting off the bench, he took a few steps onto the grassy field to practice casting the charm. I did the same, drawing my wand from my robes. We were near the Quidditch pitch now. Quidditch: could that be my happy memory?

Taking a deep breath, Scott twirled his wand around forcefully. "_Expecto Patronum_!" he bellowed. A few silvery-blue sparks sprouted from the end of his wand, fizzling in the wind. Scott frowned.

"Maybe the memory isn't happy enough." I recalled a note scrawled in the notebook. "What memory did you use?" Scott tore his gaze away from me.

"I'd rather not say," he mumbled. I decided to drop the subject, watching him for a moment."Why don't you try now, Miles?"

A happy memory. My mind raced to find one, before settling on the final match of the Inter-House Quidditch Cup two years ago.

"The score is still 210-30, with Slytherin Keeper Miles Bletchley's fantastic defense against Adam Wenlock preserving Slytherin's lead over Ravenclaw," announced Heidi Alderton, the excitable seventh-year Hufflepuff commentator. My hands trembled with excitement: my first year playing Keeper, and I was doing so well! I had blocked six attempts to score so far: I felt unstoppable.

"Anthony Wilkes of Slytherin has spotted the Snitch near the Ravenclaw goals: but he's not alone! Ravenclaw Seeker Iris Prosser is in hot pursuit..." The crowds were in a frenzy: the two Seekers back then were known to be the best, and neither Wilkes nor Prosser seemed to have a clear advantage over the other. Alderton's commentary faded into an echo as I watched, slack-jawed, at the spins and turns they skillfully executed. The Snitch hovered about, tantalizingly out of reach from both Seekers' clawing hands, until...

"Iris Prosser has caught the Snitch! What a play!" My insides began to quiver, until I realized that we still had a thirty point lead. Prosser denied us the Snitch, but we still won. My heart drummed against my chest, a feeling of warmth spreading through me. I had saved six goals! I helped the team win!

My grip on my wand tightened as the elation I had felt two years ago flooded back. "_Expecto Patronum_!" Waving my wand clockwise viciously, I watched as silvery-green smoke was expelled from my tip of the wand. Slowly, it began to form into a fog around me. This was it! My Patronum!

My excitement was short-lived, though: the smoke dissipated, leaving me standing in the field. I was distantly aware of the breeze whipping my hair about, as my heart began to feel heavy,

"Don't feel bad, Miles. These are advanced spells after all." Scott patted my shoulder reassuringly, but his voice had a hint of disappointment to it too. It's just extra credit, why was I so let down? I accepted the Fruit Rock he fished out of his pocket, popping it into my mouth. _Lime. _Scott chewed nosily on his sweet, distractedly flipping through his notebook.

"Miles, what memory did you use?" Should I tell him? Scott was there during the match, after all. "If you don't mind me asking?" he added.

I blinked twice. "Quidditch. I thought about Quidditch." Intensity flittered across Scott's green eyes as he tried to rack his brains to figure out what I was thinking about. Eventually, he nodded acceptingly. "I think you were getting there. With practice you could probably cast the Patronus."

The pitch was a minute's walk away from the benches where we had been practicing. My Nimbus 2001 was probably still in my closet, as were my Quidditch robes: untouched since our defeat at the final game two weeks ago. Wouldn't want them to collect dust. I probably should start a training schedule. My steps quickened. I'll free up Mondays and Wednesdays...

"Where are you going?" Scott called from behind, trying to keep up with my pace. Without turning around, I said, "Quidditch pitch. Just thought I'd fly around. Let out the stress."

The footsteps behind me stopped, but I did not. "Flying's not my thing. See you at dinner!" With a wave, Scott walked back towards the castle.

The Slytherin team room was clean and spartan, unlike the Hufflepuffs' room directly beside it. Still, it felt familiar: I had previously practiced here for so long, and for so hard, be the training the physical exercises Montague and Flint were so keen on making us do, or drills involving catching and throwing the Quaffle. It wasn't nostalgia, though. We would be back next year.

My closet door swung open soundlessly, and I walked in. A _Lumos_ illuminated the magically-enlarged space. Stepping over my old training broom and a discarded robe, I retrieved my Nimbus 2001 which was propped up in and old corner. I then changed into my training attire: the usual skin-hugging robes, the faded green and silver a testament to the hours I had spent earlier this year wearing it.

I exited my closet, walked past the benches, past the showers, and out of the room into the familiar pitch. The grass was green underfoot, the sun shining, and the spectators stands empty. Just Miles Bletchley and his broom. I dragged my fingers across the handle of the broom, feeling for the initials I had cut into it earlier this year. This was familiar. This would be relaxing.

Mounting my Nimbus 2001, I mentally mapped out my flying route. A few rounds around the pitch to warm me up. Perhaps I could practice diving too, which would entail me going high up before I could maximize my practice._ I'm a fourth year. This shouldn't be too difficult. _

In time, I had completed a few quick laps and three dives, in the span of forty minutes. My shoulders begun to ache, and I reminded myself to practice physically, too.

I was at the peak of my fourth ascent into the clouds now. The cool rush of wind tousled my normally straight hair, my lips were chapped from the dry air, and I was pretty sure my palms were beginning to turn red, but I was enjoying myself genuinely. Flying was theurapetic without the bark of the captain or the pressing need to maximize my speed and handling, and I looked forward to practicing alone over the next few weeks.

Pulling my broom down, I began my descent. The wind whistled around me as I plummeted towards the ground. At least I'm in control this time... and having fun. Adrenaline surged through me. About a hundred meters off the ground now. Yanking the handle upwards, my broom jerked to a halt, and I felt myself lurch to the right. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my broom tightly, and I remained on. I was clumsy this time. Looking down towards the green field, I pondered if a break was needed.

In the distance, a figure shuffled about the spectator stands. I furrowed my brows. Who was watching? Scott? The minute figure finally came to a halt: he must have sat down. In the Gryffindor stands? I flew towards the stands slowly and cautiously.

Leanne Dobbs? My broom hovered in the air, as I delibated whether to leave them alone or question them. However, my scrutiny revealed the two weren't looking at me. They were watching the second entrance to the Quidditch pitch: where Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams exited. Probably Gryffindor. Would Bell be here?

A tiny figure stepped onto the pitch, broom in hand. The sun illuminated the figure's hair: it was a brilliant shade of gold. Bell was here!

I flew down to meet her, hovering a few meters in front of Bell. She mounted her broom: a Nimbus 1700, it seemed. Eyeing me, a slow smile began to spread across her face. I returned it, beaming foolishly in spite of myself.

"Miles! I thought Slytherin canceled their practice." As I had expected, there was no hostility or contempt in her voice, only curiousity. I doubted the other Gryffindors on the team would have treated me the same. They probably wouldn't have even bothered with finding out our training schedule. Bell probably heard it from Scott.

"We did. I'm coming here by myself," I explained evenly. Wringing my wrists to release the tension in my muscles, I nodded up at the sky. "I'll race you. Three rounds around the pitch, fifty meters above ground."

Bell looked as if she was considering my offer, but the earnest grin that never left her face gave away her intentions. "I'll do it. Loser buys the other a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks next trip."

I snorted. "I'm a cocoa kind of person myself." Bell angled herself, her broom parallel to mine. "Ready when you are."

Hunching over my broom, I began the countdown. "Three... two... one!" My broom shot forward, putting some distance between me and Bell. Her older Nimbus would never match mine when it came to speed. Perhaps I should have challenged her to something more acrobatic. The sweat was causing my robes to stick to my back, and I resolved to have a shower immediately after.

The sharp right turn was coming up ahead, and I gently tugged on my broom. I had made the mistake of being too overconfident in my third year, and ended up with a fractured nose. I prepared to throw myself to the right at five meters away from the bend to leave a safe distance for turning.

There was a sudden rush of cloth behind me, but I kept my eyes ahead. Bell squeezed past me, and I could only watch as she lithely made the ninety-degree turn. A mixture of humiliation and admiration welled up in me, and my grip on the broom tightened yet again.

By the time I rounded the bend, Bell was a good thirty meters ahead of me: the next turn was coming up in another hundred meters, too. Glancing back, she smirked at me before speeding ahead. I resolved to outmaneuver her at the corner, but inwardly knew it was a lost cause.

"One Butterbeer next trip, Miles." Bell playfully smacked me on the shoulder, and I masked the sting of defeat with a small smile. She had finished the lap a good fifteen seconds ahead of me, and seemed barely grazed. On the other hand, I had two near-collisions, and my torso was sore from relentlessly pushing the broom to speed up. The rest of my body was in bad shape too: I was sure my fingers would ache tomorrow. And to top it off, I would have to spend money too! A token sum, but it would remind me of losing to Bell today.

So why did I feel so great?

The cool water splashed against the stink of my skin, a pleasant chill rippling through my body. I missed this sensation. It was refreshing to come back to a cold shower after training. Did today count as training? Probably. I reached for a bar of soap, vigorously scrubbing my arms. Once I was satisfied they were cleaned, I reached over to my back. I massaged out most of the kinks in my muscle, but my lower back was frustratingly out of reach as usual. Grabbing the shower, I instead let the water spray at my back. The lather on my chest slowly dripped to the floor, and I watched it detachedly.

The water had begun to pool up on the floor. My reflection stared back at me. Same sharp nose, same sleek black hair, same grey eyes. Still Miles Bletchley. The firmness of the muscles in my chest and stomach remained: it would take more than two weeks for the tissue to deteriorate, and I resolved to prevent that from happening.

Something about me was different though. As the water trickled to a halt, and I stepped out of the shower, it occurred to me I would be accompanying Bell to Hogsmeade next weekend.

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**I'm not sure if I'm writing action scenes well enough...**


	12. Hogsmeade Visit I

**Finally broke the 20k word mark, and each chapter now exceeds 2k words on average. I had fun writing this chapter. Hope you'll enjoy reading it too.**

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"When are you headed to Hogsmeade? I've been meaning to pick up some more Chocolate Frogs: I just need Gwyddien and Cannetella to complete the second series of cards." Scott and I were still in our dormitory, preparing for the rest of the day.

It was a Saturday morning, and the weather was mild. I owed Bell a drink, and planned to settle that debt today.

I contemplated the question, amused as Scott struggled to put on a grey shirt one size too small. "Don't know. Probably in the evening, I'm meeting a friend at the Three Broomsticks. Want to come?"

Scott had finally given up on the shirt and had begun to rummage through his clothing trunk. Voice muffled as he bent over, he asked, "A friend?" The reason why I was meeting Bell was a long story, one which involved my loss of a bet yesterday. That being said, Scott would probably accompany me on the trip, and would probably find out about my appointment.

"Yeah, Bell." After eight Herbology lessons of being in the same group, Scott probably knew her, or at least viewed her as an acquaintance. I awaited a response as he fished out a coin pouch.

He whistled. "Bell, huh? Meeting her at the Three Broomsticks?" The waggle of his eyebrows and his faux-seductive grin looked ridiculous. "Will I see you in your bed tomorrow morning?" He elicited a snort from me.

I played along. "Feel free to come along to chaperone, Scott. I don't think Bell's coming alone: you could probably have dinner with Dobbs. Or is it the other Gryffindor Chasers that you're after? Johnson? Spinnet?" Scott grinned sportingly, his ears a burning shade of red. "Didn't know you were into the athletic kind."

He held up his hands in defeat. "Drop it already, Miles. I'll leave you alone today, then. Probably going to go to Honeyduke's and get back before lunch." Opening his coin pouch, Scott scrutinized its contents. Satisfied he had enough, we headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.

"So the Fire Crab's already scuttling under the fence- Hagrid dives to get it, but the thing turns around. And get this: you know how they spit a stream of fire?" Amused, I took another sip of hot chocolate. Lewis Stimpson paused for a moment, taking in the nods of agreement around the table, before resuming his tale. "This one's trail of flame was spectacular! Had Hagrid not ducked in time, he'd probably have been reduced to ashes by now. But he dives under, and his hair gets the brunt of it instead-"

Scott tapped me lightly on the shoulder. "Bell's leaving the Hall now. Shouldn't you be talking to her now?" I blinked quickly, emptying the contents of my mug before setting it back on the table loudly. "I should." Clambering out of my seat, I dashed in the direction Scott had been pointing at.

"Bell!" She was walking a few meters ahead of me, a group of older Gryffindors between us. If she had heard me, she had shown no reaction. Where was she going? I needed to decide on a time to meet her at the Three Broomsticks today.

"Bell!" I shouted slightly louder. There was still no response. "Katie! Wait up!" The blonde finally faltered mid-step, looking to her right. I jogged up to her.

Tapping her on the shoulder, Bell whipped around. Her suspicion was quickly replaced with one of recognition. Before I could get my words out, two of her companions turned to face me too.

"Bletchley. What do you want?" asked Angelina Johnson. The taller, dark-skinned girl narrowed her eyes at me. Beside her, Alicia Spinnet's hand quickly darted into her pocket: no doubt to ready her wand. Bell took a step towards me, prompting a scowl from Johnson.

Bell's teeth gleamed, her cheerful expression a stark contrast from the belligerence of her friends. "Miles! I couldn't find you during breakfast." Well, me neither. "When do you want to go to Hogsmeade?"

Despite the pointed glares from Spinnet and Johnson, my voice remained level. "We could meet at the Three Broomsticks at six thirty." The food served there was a nice change from the usual dinner fare at the Great Hall. The last carriage back to Hogwarts was at eight, leaving Bell with more than enough time to talk. I would have to catch the six o'clock carriage.

Her eyes twinkled. Before she could mutter her assent, Johnson nudged her in the arm. "Katie! You blew us off to go out with a Slytherin?" She had tried to lower her voice, but the accusation came out as a hiss. Bell didn't seem pleased at the remark, whipping around to stare down Johnson.

Spinnet placed a hand on her shoulder, her calm voice balancing out Johnson's anger. "We're just concerned." She nodded in my direction, and I folded my arms. "He's part of the group that attacked us over a game, Katie. How do you know he can be trusted?" She had a point, but that didn't mean I had to agree with it.

Bell sighed, raking her fingers over her scalp. " know he's a Slytherin, but that doesn't mean he's a bad person... okay?" She got that right. Johnson remained unconvinced, cocking her head to study me. "It's a long story. I'll tell you about it tonight, alright?"

Johnson was finally placated, relaxing her posture. Spinnet occasionally cast a glance at me, but largely accepted Bell's explanation. Grabbing Bell's forearm, she prompted, "Come on now, Katie. We still need to find the twins, Ollie and Harry." Katie nodded absentmindedly.

"Sorry about Angie and Alicia: they're a tad overprotective sometimes." Spinnet smiled awkwardly, and Johnson glared at me. "I'll see you later at six thirty!" With an enthusiastic wave, she beamed at me. I watched as she disappeared around a corner, flanked by the other two Chasers. It was odd how so many of our conversations ended this way.

I arrived at the Three Broomsticks five minutes before I was scheduled to meet Bell. Pushing open the door to the familiar pub, I left my grey windbreaker on a coat rack, then scanned the pub for an empty seat. There was an empty table near the window at the back, which I gladly occupied. Dennis Brunt and Hazel Nettles from Ravenclaw were at the next table, snogging noisily. Averting my eyes from the public display of affection, I pulled out a Chocolate Frog out: a conquest from my earlier stop at Honeydukes.

_Bad luck, Scott. _The wizard on the card was Bram Stoker, and I was pretty sure Scott already had two of the card. Tucking the scowling portrait of the Muggleborn novelist into my pocket, I chewed on the confectionary. _Where was Bell? _

The door opened, and I squinted at the figure walking in. It was just a bearded, middle-aged wizard... No, wait. Behind him was Bell, dressed in a maroon jacket. I watched as she shed the outer garment to reveal a plain blouse, before whistling to catch her attention. She perked up upon spotting me, hurriedly sauntering over.

"Miles!" She sidled into the seat opposite me. "Your shirt looks great on you!" I quickly glanced down: a forest green jersey. It had been a gift from Tiffany Salvatrix last year.

"Uh, thanks." What do I say next? Compliment her on the blouse? "Your shoes are nice," Bell had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing, and my cheeks heated up. "Anyway, I think I owe you a drink." I rose to my feet.

"Could you get a glass of Gillywater too? Leanne should be coming over soon." I raised an eyebrow inquisitively, and Bell quickly clarified, "She's over at Maestro's to repair a broken flute."

"I didn't know she played the flute."

She spared a quick gaze outside the window, her eyes darting around the shops. "Leanne and Emma both play musical instruments: it runs in their family, I think."

"Who's Emma?"

"Leanne's sister. She'll be attending Hogwarts next year."

"I see." Bell impatiently drummed her fingers on the table, and I decided to purchase the drinks. I quickly made my way to the counter, counting out nine Sickles and two Knuts. A bored-looking girl accepted the money I deposited in her outstretched palm, nodding at my request. "Would you like your Butterbeer hot or cold?"

_What would Bell like?_ "Warm, I think." The waiter nodded, leaving me to idly observe the pub. Dobbs burst through the door, a thin black case tucked under her arm: her flute.

I watched from a distance as Bell embraced Dobbs affably. She then pointed her thumb in my direction, no doubt indicating the drinks were with me. Leanne looked over, offering a small wave. I nodded at them.

"Your drinks are ready, sir." Three mugs were set on the counter. Gingerly carrying them back to the table, I nearly bumped into a few people on the way back. Fortunately, I managed to set the drinks on the table with only a minimal amount of liquid spilled.

Dobbs cupped her hands around the mug of Gillywater, peering into it approvingly. Bell took a loud sip of her own drink. "You should have asked us for help carrying the drinks." Leanne averted her eyes guiltily.

I blew on the surface of my hot chocolate. "It's not my fault you didn't decide to help." Damn. It didn't sound like I was joking: how was Scott able to pull off sarcasm? The slow shake of Bell's head suggested my words hurt her, but the smile etched on her face told me she felt otherwise.

"The one time us Gryffindors decide to reign in our hero complex..." I chuckled. "Dobbs, I can't believe you let your friend get the better of you."

She pursed her lips, eyes thinning. "Dobbs? I was hoping we'd at least be on first name terms by now. It'd be a nice gesture, even if it's a Slytherin thing to do." It was a Slytherin thing to do.

"Fine, _Leanne_." A smirk tugged at my lips. I wasn't going to take the first name basis too far, though. "Even if Bell decides to leave all the carrying to me, I was hoping you'd come over."

Leanne spoke up. "I'm sure he doesn't need help doing something as simple as carrying drinks." She smirked at me. "What he might need help with, on the other hand, might be Quidditch." The propagator of the story nodded her head serenely. "I'm sure even Leanne could start tutoring you on how to round corners."

Low blow, Bell. "Hey, my job's just to catch the Quaffle. Look for Potter if you want good flying." Faux hurt creeped into my voice.

Bell tousled her hair. "I was just kidding, Miles. I'm sure you're a good player."

"I am."

A comfortable silence fell over the four of us, occasionally punctuated by a slight cough from Leanne. The fireplace crackled silently: accompanied by the chatter of the nearby tables, the ambiance of the pub ensured the lack of conversation did not become awkward. The hot chocolate warmed my throat, and I was reminded that I had not had dinner yet. A quick wave of my hand summoned a waitress.

"Fish and chips, please: easy on the vinegar." The waitress nodded, turning to my companions. "Anything else?"

"Two beef pasties for me," said Bell.

"Bangers and mash."

Within minutes, the food arrived. My fish was battered crisply, and the chips a tad soggy. Enjoying the aroma of the meal, I bit into a chip. Bell's pasty didn't look half bad.

Dinner was spent enjoyably. First, Bell and Leanne discussed Astronomy: I had never been fond of the subject, but the two of them made it sound far worse than Arithmancy. A few anecdotes about Trelawney's incompetence later, we moved on to the subject of Transfiguration: something all of us at least took. It seemed Bell and I had the shared experience of barely scraping by in the class: while Leanne was slightly better, she wasn't exceptional either. We at least agreed McGonagall was competent and caring, unlike some other staff. I decided to save my recounting of a particularly unpleasant incident involving Filch for another time.

We moved onto subjects other than school: Bell struck up a brief discussion on competitive Quidditch: I was probably one of the only few people in Hogwarts who supported the Wigtown Wanderers. I answered a few questions about my Nimbus 2001, and Bell shared her first time flying on a broom. Leanne added in a few comments: she had probably heard the stories a few times. She didn't have much to say about the sport itself, though.

Each of us talked about what we planned to do over the summer holidays: Bell would be back in Muggle London with her parents, but planned to play or watch the occasional game of Quidditch. Leanne and her sister would spend summer at their family home near Devon: nothing spectacular. I would be returning to the family villa to spend time with my mother. All of us agreed we would be visiting the Quidditch World Cup, though. Between forkfuls of food, we made agreements to sit together at the games.

I had learned a lot about the others today. Bell was practically a muggleborn: her mother was a muggleborn Quidditch coach, who had married a muggle. She took Astronomy and Muggle Studies as her electives, was proficient at Herbology and Transfiguration and feared snakes. Leanne and Emma were both half-bloods: their father was a pureblood who had married a half-blood. Leanne didn't like bats. Leanne also revealed that she had been friends with Bell since their first year, in exchange for my explanation about my first proper meeting with Bell.

Of course, the conversation wasn't entirely one-sided. During our discussion about Boggarts, I had also let slip I feared my father: in a way, it was true, but I deflected attention from my own family history by recounting some particularly tales that had occurred in the Slytherin common room over the past year.

The meeting lifted everyone's spirits: by the time the three of us clambered into a carriage at eight, Bell had a radiant glow about her, and Leanne's normally tired look had been replaced by a gleam in her eyes. Even I wore a stupid grin as we distanced ourself from the village of Hogsmeade and the castle grew close.

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****As I promised, the updates will be lengthier. I kinda realized I rely a tad too much on the same phrases to describe dialogue or actions, any ideas how I can switch it up?****


	13. Morsmorde

**Sometimes, I kinda wish I wrote this story in third person. **

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The three of us sat cross-legged on the floor in Bell's tent, chatting: it was rare that Mr. Vaisey had allowed Scott and I to stay overnight by ourselves without adult supervision. Albeit he wanted us to spend the night sleeping in our tents before he came back the next day to pick us up, but I supposed there was no harm in passing the night with Bell. Besides, the Quidditch World Cup only came by once every four years: who'd sleep on a night like this? The screams of celebration at Ireland's victory at the finals still echoed around the campsite. It was safe, too: Bell's mother was in the other room of the tent, and had supplied us with snacks earlier. The night looked young.

"It's a pity we couldn't sit together at the match. Leanne and Emma were both sick today: Mom had two spare tickets."

Scott looked up from the Chocolate Frog card he was reading. "What happened?"

Bell waved nonchalantly at him. "Both of them had chickenpox: they should be fine now."

Nothing a few days of rest couldn't cure: I was glad to have already contracted it as a child. "To be fair, Bell, it wasn't like we wanted to avoid you: we only bumped into you on the way back to our tent."

Unwrapping a piece of taffy, she nodded at Scott. "Who were you rooting for today? Don't tell me you supported Bulgaria like Miles."

Scott clasped his hands dreamily, pretending to swoon. "What can I say? Viktor Krum's chiseled physique is irresistible!" This prompted a giggle from Bell.

Two could play at this game. "Into Quidditch players now, are we? Is that why you come down to watch me train?"

Scott whipped around to face me. "I don't do that!" he said, a little too quickly. "Besides, we all know it's Marcus Flint I'm after."

I smirked. "I still think he was the one lurking about the dungeons in our second year." Bell broke out laughing, cheeks flushing red.

She clasped her hand over her mouth, stifling her guffaws. Scott took the opportunity to pop another Chocolate Frog into his mouth, chewing loudly. He surveyed his card with interest, sliding it into his pocket. How come he isn't fat yet?

"Miles?" Bell was watching me with a curious spark in her hazel eyes. "What'd you want to do once you leave Hogwarts?" She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, but didn't break eye contact.

"That's an odd question to ask." I chewed on my lip. What was I good at? While Wood and Derrick would disagree, I had never considered Qudditch a great career option. It was fun as a sport, I couldn't imagine doing it professionally, all the time. That left my talents in Potions and Charms to decide my profession. Hogwarts Professor didn't sound like fun: I lacked the drive to impart wisdom or simply interact with hundreds of students. St. Mungo's was a popular, but viable option when it came to potion brewing. Many other jobs involved Charms too: from Auror to candymaker, but none of them held my interest for too long. Business was another option, though I wasn't thrilled by the prospect of managing my mother's Firewhiskey breweries.

Scott was the one to speak up first. "Probably not Quidditch for him." It seemed like he remembered my musings from last year.

"Not Quidditch. Probably a brewer, or cursebreaker or something." Bell seemed crestfallen.

"Oh, I just wanted to see if I could help. My mom manages the Wigtown Wanderers, and if you'd wanted some advice or a headstart in the industry, I was thinking she could help."

I nodded, not expecting her mother to be coaching such an illustrious team. It was rare for muggleborns to be highly successful in the industry, let alone coach one of the best teams in the league.

"I'll ask her if I have any questions. What do you plan to do, Bell?" This seemed to get her off guard.

"Chaser, what else?" She furrowed her brow, like I was daft for expecting any other answer.

"It's good to keep your options open. I'm good mostly at Transfiguration and Potions, like Miles, but that doesn't mean I have to limit myself."

Bell had a distant look to her as she digested Scott's words. "That's true. Thanks for the advice."

"What about you, Scott? Any future plans?"

Sheepishly, he scratched his hair. "Well, you probably already know, Miles..." His emerald eyes flitted to Bell for a moment. "Still hasn't changed. Wandmaker, maybe. Or work with muggles." He had done pretty well in Muggle Studies, and previously mentioned being interested in Muggle Relations. Bell considered this for a while, no doubt influenced by her heritage. It seemed she expected us, being Slytherins to voice our distaste for muggleborns or muggles in general.

Before either of us could comment on Scott's idea, Bell's mother walked in, her thickset frame making the small room feel even more cramped. A look of mild curiosity crossed Scott, and Bell looked up at her mother in surprise. "Mom! What's the matter?"

Mrs. Bell's voice was serious, her normally jovial and motherly tone replaced with a hard edge. "Katie, I want you to go to the Portkey we used yesterday. Take it back to the apartment now." Ignoring our looks of concern, she continued on. "Bring your wands with you. Use them if you must."

Uncertainty creeped into Bell's voice. "What's going on?"

"Katherine Anne Bell! You will go and take your friends with you back home! Do not ask any more questions!" With a firm shove, the three of us were ushered out into the main room of the tent. As Scott hesitatingly eyed the remaining food and bedrolls we had left in Bell's room, her mother was already making her way out of the tent.

"Go! And hurry!" With those parting words, Bell, Scott and I were left alone.

"Take out your wands. Mom seems serious about today, we might be in danger." Brandishing my wand from my pocket, I nodded at her. Scott did likewise, sliding his hemlock wand out of his robes. Bell already had her wand clasped tightly in her hands.

Scott nervously swallowed. "I wonder what's happening now. What do I tell my dad?" He looked to me for an answer.

"We'll figure that out later. Once everyone's ready, we should hurry. How far away is the Portkey?" Bell's eyes widened.

"All the way across the campsite: about ten minutes. Let's go!"

The tent flapped fluttered as she pulled me through, Scott quivering behind me. The cool of the night air was a chill on my exposed skin. There was an arid smell of smoke, and Scott tugged on my shoulder.

"Behind! Look!" There was a steady stream of people ahead of us, fleeing from something behind. Two dark-skinned men hurried past me, gesturing in the opposite direction. Their eyes were wild as they gibbered at us, but their intention was clear. Bell pointed there too. "That's where the Portkey is, let's go!"

I could not tear my eyes from the sight behind our tent. What had previously been a gathering of a hundred-odd tents were now an inferno, the orange of the blaze lighting up the night sky. As thick smoke wafted up, I spotted the distinctive flash of white that indicated a Flame Freezing Charm. It sputtered upon contacting a burning tent, the Charm unable to quell the magical fires.

"We need to go. Now!" Bell's words were a demand. Shrill screams lit up the air as the three of us sprinted into the unknown.

"Bloody hell." Bell, Scott and I were crouched behind the smoldering remains of a tree. Ahead of us, three black-robed figures stood, their back to us. Two men dressed in muggle clothing dangled in the air, suspended from their ankles: as pink bolts of light seared them, the muggles let out screeches of pain. Even from our hiding spot, the rioters' barks of laughter were unsettling. There was a chill in the pit of my stomach: something was definitely off about them, like there was an inherent wrongness in their actions.

"What do we do?" Scott whimpered. His red shirt was soaked with sweat, and his eyes brimmed with redness. "They look dangerous!"

There was an odd gargle in Bell's throat, and her eyes hardened. "We can't let them keep doing this!" she hissed. As she rose to confront them, I quickly pulled her back.

"We can't take on four grown men! Let's get to the Portkey, like your mother told us to do!" Even as I said those words, one of the muggles collapsed onto the ground. Bell let out an indignant cry.

One of the trio must have heard Bell, for they spun around quickly, heads turning as they searched for the source of the sound. The moonlight illuminated one of their faces, and my insides curled. They had no faces, only silver masks under their hood, snake-like slits where their eyes should have been. Death Eaters.

"I see you!" As the tallest of the figures eager proclaimed his discovery, an acid yellow hex splintered the stump of the tree. We were counting on the shadows now to keep us hidden, but I knew any attempts to escape, short of Apparition, would be futile. "Come out now, and maybe we'll let you live," sneered another.

Trembling, Scott rose to his feet, shakily walking into the clearing. With a nervous sigh, I walked after him: what choice did I have? Disgust was evident in the glare Bell directed at me as she did likewise, and I suddenly felt hopeless.

"Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Another muggle? Or perhaps this one's a... Mudblood?" The Death Eater's voice was cold on the last word. His companion illuminated the clearing with a flick of the wand: Bell's face was a staunch visage of emotionlessness, while Scott visibly flinched.

I decided to play the only card I could possibly play, hoping it would get us out of here. Otherwise, it'd be up to me and Bell's wandwork to get us through the night in one piece. Hoping my voice betrayed none of the dread I felt, I looked into the mask of the nearest Death Eater.

"I'm Bletchley. Miles Bletchley." If my words had prompted a reaction from the masked man, it did not show. As the seconds of silenced passed, I braced myself for the worst.

The Death Eater's voice was surprisingly normal when he finally replied. "Gareth Bletchley was a good friend. It was a pity he fell in combat, but your father was remembered." Though he clearly intended it to be a compliment, I did not take it as such. The masked man continued,"You'd do good to honor his name, take up the Dark Mark. Go, now, we won't do you harm." Conflicted feelings rose within me: revulsion, relief, joy, but I suppressed them for the moment, preparing to sprint to the Portkey with the others as soon as they let us go. My father's name had saved us! Perhaps he had been good for something after all.

"I don't suppose the other two are Bletchleys now, are they, Mycroft? Gareth only had one child," pointed out a gruff voice from the hooded wizard beside him.

"They're with me!" I said a little too quickly. "Slytherins, I mean. Friends."

Even behind the mask, I could feel a twisted amusement behind the third Death Eater's words. "Let's see then, shall we? If you truly are Slytherins, where is the common room? Such a common question we ask, so few answers..."

For the first time since we had been found, Bell spoke up. "In the dungeons, near the Aqueduct."

The Death Eater paused for a second, then stepped forward. "You then!" His wand was raised to point at Scott. "What's the painting above the fireplace?"

"The Knighting of Sir Livius!" Scott sputtered. His pale skin was drained of colour, even as the Death Eater lowered his wand.

The three of them viewed us, a heavy feeling of dread still lingering in the night chill. The nod of the shortest Death Eater was nearly imperceptible, as he indicated a nearby patch of shubbery. "Go then. Safety is the glass jar behind those bushes."

Before we could take a step towards the Portkey, the Death Eater who had not spoken till now rose a hand, and we halted in our steps. Slowly, the sleeve of his robes peeled down revealing the bare skin of his arm. Silvery moonlight revealed an intricate tattoo of a snake coiling around a skull. The darkness of the Mark was stark against his pallid skin.

"The Dark Lord," he wheezed. "He will be back."

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**Review! Now! **


	14. Muggle London

**Meet the parents! This is one of my longer chapters, but not by a considerable margin. **

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"My house isn't that far from here," said Bell, pointing to a cluster of towers that looked to be a few kilometers away. Scott was bent over, hands on his knees as he composed himself from the Portkey trip. The tugging in my guts finally subsided, and I gingerly took in my surroundings.

We were in an alleyway, a metallic container with a black bag to my right. Directly in front of us was a dead end, and the cracked, peeling grey paint of the three walls to my left, back and front indicated the area was in disuse. The paved road under my feet was soiled, and a foul stench rose from the metal container. An obscenity had been scrawled on one of the walls: this didn't seem like a good part to be around.

"Where are we, Bell? London?" I had been to the Muggle part of the city on a few occasions, but not like this.

She nodded assent. "I hope my mother's at home." I knew better than to offer her false hope: I doubted the Death Eaters would let a muggleborn off that easily, especially since Mrs. Bell was a high profile witch. How would Bell react if the worst case scenario occurred? There was an odd tension in my chest.

"Your mom seems tough, she'll probably make it home." Scott had finally recovered, and was now standing to my right. He seemed to be in better shape too.

On the walk back, Bell was subdued and quiet. It was a side of her I had never seen before: it seemed like fear and stress had beaten down the good spirits of the Gryffindor, and I hoped this phase would not last long. Many storefronts, muggle devices and people caught me and Scott's eye, but we kept to ourselves, instead of talking to Bell about it. There would be time to do so in the future. Most of the walk was spent in silence.

London was radically different from any other environment I had been in. Perhaps the fact it was about one o' clock in the morning influenced my judgment, but it was still nothing like the Wizarding World. Flashing lights were mounted on poles every so often, and metal hunks whizzed by on roads: it seemed the muggles no longer had much need for horses. Numerous advertisements plastered the streets, and many buildings had a smooth finish: none of the stone bricks that were so common elsewhere. The occasional person that walked on the streets were all dressed incredibly casually, sometimes casting us odd looks at our robes.

We stepped out of a moving metal box that had taken us from the first floor of Bell's tower to the eighth. The corridor was sparse but well-maintained. Bell led us to an oak door on the right, and stooped to pluck a key from a red mat in front of the door. Ingenious.

The door opened soundlessly, revealing darkness. Bell stepped in quickly, shedding her shoes. _Do I do the same?_ Scott was removing his shoes too, and I bent over to take mine off. Bell gave us an impatient wave of her hand, and Scott and I hurried in.

The room suddenly lit up. It seemed clean, but not tidy: it was coloured a calming shade of gold, and some armchairs lay in the center of room. A black box stood on a set of tables, and various nonmoving paintings adorned the walls. A few passageways led to a few other rooms, but most of the doors were closed. How had she illuminated the place? Had she used nonverbal magic? Bell's wand wasn't in her hand, and I could not spot any fires, whether magically created or not. "Electric lights," whispered Scott in awe.

What lights? Before I could approach Bell, a door swung open. A middle-aged balding man walked out, his face clean shaven but sweater crumpled. "Katie? Why're you back home at this hour? Where's your mother?" It seemed he had expected her back, just not at this hour.

Bell's eyes widened and her hands trembled. "You haven't seen Mom yet?"

Her father pursed his lips, searching Bell's eyes. If he had noticed us, he did not show it. "No, she was here just twenty minutes ago. She went to search for you! There was some sort of riot at the campground!" He took a step forward, embracing Bell in a flutter of clothing She buried her face in his neck. "I was so worried, Katie," he breathed.

They held each other tightly for a few seconds, before he released her. Finally turning to us, he asked, "Who are these young men, Katie? Your friends?"

She nodded furiously. "We escaped the campsite together. Miles-" she pointed at me with her thumb, "got us away from some Death Eaters safely!"

I exchanged gazes with her father. "Is that true?" I nodded. "The Death Eaters are back, too?" I blinked quickly. How did this muggle know about them? Nonetheless, I confirmed his suspicions.

"This is bad news. I'm glad you all made it back safely, though. Your mother should be coming back soon, I'll get you all drinks in the meantime." As an adult, Mrs. Bell could Apparate: it was just a matter of when she decided to head back.

"Miles and I are fine with tea, if you have that." He gave us a distracted nod, disappearing into a doorless room filled with numerous intimidating appliances. It must have been the kitchen. Bell finally turned to us, motioning to a couch. We all sat down, and I let a sigh out.

"I'm so glad my mother's alright." I nodded: it would have been devastating had her mother perished at the hands of Death Eaters. It seemed everything would be alright, as soon as Scott and I went back to the Vaisey home later to resume the rest of the summer holidays.

Bell's father swooped in, placing our drinks on the table. Bell picked up a brown mug of tea, sipping it. It seemed she preferred her drinks hot but unsweetened. I reached for the sugar cubes, passing one to Scott and then dissolving one in my mug.

"My father will kill me if he finds we're not back at home in the morning!" Scott said. Mr. Vaisey was away overseas: Albania or Estonia, or some other Eastern country, and would probably throttle us both if Twinkle, Scott's house elf, informed us that we had not reached the manor in the morning.

I racked my brain for a solution. Scott's fireplace was probably closed to Floo connections now, and we could not Apparate. "How about we send a letter to your father? Tell him about the situation?"

Bell chewed on her lip, leaning back into the couch. "We don't have an owl. Mom doesn't like keeping them around."

"Any magical areas around here? If we could find a pub, like the Leaky Cauldron, we could use an owl or Floo there." I doubted there was one, and Bell's terse shake of the head confirmed it.

"You have to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but it's closed now. My father can fetch you two there tomorrow in his car."

Car? "What's a car?" A frown flashed over Bell's face, but disappeared. _Probably a muggle thing. _

Scott lit up. "I've learnt about them. Horseless carriages, right?" Realization dawned over me. A car must have been the metal boxes I saw propelling themselves on the roads.

"You can stay the night here," said Bell. "I can't imagine Dad saying no."

Sure enough, after a brief chat with her father, he allowed us to stay the night, and even ferry us to the Leaky Cauldron at nine the next day. All of our possessions had been left behind in our tents: my spare clothes and Quidditch souvenirs were probably ashes by now. All I had brought with me were a coin pouch filled with about fifteen galleons, my wand, and my clothes; a scarlet and black jumper, and long pants. My clothes were streaked with mud, and plastered to parts of my body by sweat.

We were in Bell's room now: a queen-sized bed, a large dresser, bookshelf and desk were fit comfortably inside, with a rug nestled between her bed and the door. Two mattresses had been set down on the floor: one on the rug, and one poking out into the corridor. As Bell rummaged through her dresser to find Scott and I some spare clothes for the night, I pulled a book out at random. _Lord of the Rings_. It seemed like an interesting, albeit thick book.

"Here you go." I set the book down on her desk, as Bell thrusted a pastel green shirt into my hands, along with some jeans. They seemed a tad too big. "They're my father's old clothes," she said apologetically. "I would resize them to fit you, but we can't use magic now." Times like these made me dread the laws regarding underage magic, but there was nothing much I could do about it.

Holding the door open,she gestured down the hall to the second door on the left. "You can shower there; I think Scott's already inside." I muttered my thanks, and she beamed at me: it seemed a tad forced, but I didn't bring it up. Once more, I looked down at the spare clothing she had provided me. _Do muggles shower differently from us? _

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"It's eight o' clock, time to wake up!" sang an annoyingly loud voice to my ears. Groggily, I pawed at my pillow, pulling it over my ears. Peace returned for a brief twenty seconds, before I felt two pairs of hands grab at my body. I jolted up, and the room came into focus as I blinked, revealing the grinning faces of Scott and Bell.

"Son of a banshee!" I breathed. "Don't ever do that again."

Bell gave me a good-natured smack on the shoulder. "I'm taking you two out to breakfast at a Muggle restaurant, since Scott insisted I do so. He'd better be paying, though." Scott impishly smiled at the last sentence, nodding at my bulging coin purse.

I discovered Mrs. Bell had came back over the night, and Scott and I introduced ourselves to her. Bell's tearful reunion with her had probably already passed, for they greeted each other like nothing had occurred. Though the reason why she had come back so late was still unknown to me, it would be unwise to press for details.

After a few minutes of washing up, we left Bell's flat with a promise to Bell's parents to be back in forty minutes. While the idea visiting Muggle London was interesting, Scott found the notion thrilling: the wide grin he had worn since we woke up had not subsided. Bell assured me my attire was perfectly suitable for Muggle society, and I took her word for it. Travelling down through the moving metal box yet again, Bell led us down the street.

We took a right turn, and came to a small shop. The flickering sign indicated it was a 'cafe' and the aroma of coffee and bacon drew us in. Bell seemed familiar with the waiter, and took a seat near the table. We did likewise. The restaurant had a wide variety of patrons: all muggle, of course, but there were men dressed in formal attire, younger adults in casual clothing and the occasional worker. The place buzzed with chatter, but the noise did not reach an unbearable level. A menu was slid down to me and Scott, and I opened it.

Many of the foods had odd names to them, but the handwritten captions written under them helped clarify their exact nature: Muggle slang seemed difficult to get used to. Eventually, I decided on a sausage sandwich. Scott deflated a little, seeing the normalcy of muggle food, but settled on something to order too. Bell waved a waiter over.

"I'll have the fry-up, please." She winked at me. "No Quidditch for a while anyway, so I might as well indulge myself while summer lasts." I understood the sentiment.

I motioned to the menu. "The sausage sandwich." With a furious scribble, the waiter turned to Scott.

"The full English breakfast."

"You mean the fry-up?"

Scott turned a little red, but managed a nod.

"As for your drinks?"

"The usual, Kenny: an orange juice."

Scott had already thought of his drink too. "I'll have a coffee, but bring the cream separately."

Scowling, I flipped through the menu. Most terms were absolutely foreign to me: I recognized water, juice and cola: none of them were particularly appealing to me now. Finally, I spotted a term that resembled a drink I could stomach about now. If Butterbeer was as good as it was the Wizarding World...

"One beer please. Serve it hot."

The waiter set his pad down. "Kid, you don't look a day over fifteen."

I was two weeks past fifteen, but that was besides the point. "So?"

He gave me a bewildered look, but Bell quickly answered for me. "He's just joking around, don't mind him. Get him a hot chocolate." She finished the sentence with an innocent twinkle.

"Will that be all?" With that, the waiter skulked off.

I noticed the faint sound of music being played, but there was no indication a band was there. The lyrics and instruments were familiar, yet distant: probably another muggle thing.

"Looking forward to school next year?" I asked. In an odd way, I actually was: most of my holidays were spent studying, practicing charms, playing Quidditch or experimenting with writing and games. Hogwarts allowed me to do all of them, with access to more resources and the added benefit of being around friends. Scott and Bell considered my question for a moment.

"We've got our O. this year, and I think we'll do alright. Just don't stay up too late studying, Miles. Gets hard to sleep when you do that." I frowned. I didn't spend that much time revising, did I?

"I'm glad I get to be around my friends, but I wish I could see more of my parents." Bell's eyes were wistful for a moment, but the melancholy was quickly replaced by a somewhat forced cheerfulness. "Herbology is going to be fun this year: I think I'll do good in Charms too. I hope my free time and Quidditch don't get eaten up by exams too."

"I almost forgot to tell you something, Katie! I received my prefect letter last week! It'll feel weird to have so much seniority, but I'm looking forward to all the responsibilities and privileges it brings." Scott said.

Bell gave him a hug. "I'm genuinely happy for you! That's great!" The smile she wore reflected that sentiment. Scott gave a small squeak at the embrace, but quickly returned it, stupidly grinning from ear to ear. From across the table, I could only watch, bemused.

A plate was set down on the table, and the waiter coughed. "Ah, Ms. Bell... Food's here."

Scott quickly tore himself away, and looked down at his plate. "Looks great," he commented. It didn't seem exceptionally delicious, but the smell elicited a rumble from my stomach: a warm meal was a warm meal. Bell had already begun to cut into her tomato.

We ate quickly, exchanging little conversation. Bell then paid for the meal, being the only one to carry muggle money: Scott repeatedly offered to pay her back in school, but she shot down his requests each time. By the fifth offer, her crossed arms and cross look finally made Scott back down, the idea that she was getting annoyed crossing him.

Back at the flat, Bell's mother exchanged more pleasantries with Scott and I, and then we followed her father down to a cavernous chamber they called a garage: amongst the numerous metal boxes, he clambered into one, and we did likewise. I idly wondered if all of the vehicles displayed were his.

The interior of the vehicle; a car, it seemed, held five seats. With a slight scowl, Scott was permitted to sit up front, leaving Bell to ride at the back with me. Bell's father gripped a circular contraption, announcing for all of us to "fasten our seatbelts".

"What?"

Before Scott could turn around- no doubt to explain the term-, Bell was leaning across me. Tugging down at a black belt which unravelled across me, she fastened it to a little red device near my right pocket. She did likewise.

Assured that all of our seatbelts were secured, the car took off. It slowly lumbered through the garage, Bell's father weaving it through the rows and rows of other vehicles. It displayed none of the speed the vehicles had above ground, and part of the Quidditch player in me willed it to do so.

Sure enough, once we had exited the garage, the vehicle accelerated to higher speeds: it was like a more stable, faster carriage. Scott was glued to the window the whole journey, his answers to Bell's father's questions mostly monosyllabic grunts. I watched the passing storefronts only with a mild interest.

"Are you boys in the same year as Katie?"

"Yeah."

"Same house?"

"No."

"We're in Slytherin, and she's a Gryffindor. We share classes sometimes, but I've never been to her dorm-ah, her part of the school."

"Slytherin? Isn't that where all the turncoats and dark ones come from?"

"Dad, I may have exaggerated the details a bit- they aren't so bad."

"Each house has different values. B-Katie got sorted into her house because of her bravery and chivalrousness, and Scott and I are in Slytherin because of our resourcefulness, ingenuity and determination."

"_Is this the first time you've called me Katie?_"

"So, what do you plan on becoming when you grow up? I'm a little scared my little Katie will end up playing nothing but sports, just like her mother."

"I might make potions, or join the Ministry. There are lots of job openings available, and with hard work and practice, anyone can succeed."

"Hear that, Katie? You should get Mike to teach you something about potions, or magic or something else."

"Miles, dad."

"Anyway, Katie, I hope you can remain the best of friends while you're in school. These two boys will do you good to be around."

"We were already friends, dad."

"Mr. Bell, if you don't mind me asking, what do you work as?"

"I teach literature at a university."

"What's that?"

"Literature would be the study of texts and the fictional texts contain rich themes and meanings inside of them, and my job is to educate people, to get them to interpret these texts, to improve the human mind."

"No, a university."

"There aren't universities for you... wizards?

"No."

"It's an institute of higher education, something people go to study a subject in depth. Most people attend one after they graduate secondary school."

"I see."

There was a lull in the conversation, the vehicle cruising on the paved roads for a while. London passed by in a blur. In a few moments, we had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. I stepped out of the car, and Scott reluctantly followed.

"You'll have enough on you to hire an owl or use the Floo, right?" Bell's voice called out. Nodding, I gave one last wave to the Bells and stepped into the Leaky Cauldron.

The pub had not changed since I had visited it two years ago: the floor was slightly damp, the scent of brewing tea and mould permeated my nose, and there was the chatter of witches and wizards, here for a morning drink or meal. I spotted the owner, Tom, and wandered over to the bar.

"What can I do for you, young man?"

Scott dumped a Sickle and a handful of Knuts on the wooden counter. "Some Floo powder, please."

Tom glanced at the coins laid out on the counter, then swept them up. Jerkily reaching under the counter, he fumbled around, out of sight for a few seconds. He then surfaced, tossing some of the emerald green dust into Scott's still-outstretched palm.

"Should be enough for a few calls, or to transport you and your friend," he huffed. "Fireplace's in the room behind the counter."

I followed in the direction Tom had gestured to, arriving in a small room. It was sparsely furnished, with a matted rug lying on the floor and a grimy window, but as Tom had promised, there was a crackling fire. Walking over to the fireplace, Scott handed me some of the Floo powder. "Remember, 12 Stonefield, Liverpool. The fireplace in the guest reception should be open, and recognize you as a visitor." He then tossed the powder in, the orange flames taking on a green hue. Shouting his address, he stepped in, and was whisked back home. I did the same.

_See you next year, Bell. _

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**I think I might have a small problem when it comes to handwaving problems away... Do tell me if there were scenes (both in this chapter and the entire story) you'd like to see elaborated upon. **


	15. Hogwarts Express

**Time to start fourth year! This one will be more canon-compliant, and the events will run more parallel to the books. **

**I'd also like to thank my reviewers, xLaceMeWithWindx, jadely31 and yK for their invaluable advice and comments: they give me the drive to keep writing!**

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With a thunk, my trunk finally slid into an overhead shelf. Willing it to stay there for the entire trip to Hogwarts, I walked down the cramped corridor, looking for a suitable compartment to spend the rest of the journey in. As a prefect, Scott would probably sit in his separate compartment, spending parts of the journey doing his duties.

The first window I peeked into revealed four young Ravenclaws, all of them studying. I recognized not a single one of them, and decided to check the next compartment. Peering in, I could see two broomsticks lying in a corner. Their owners, two Gryffindor witches were chatting. Seeing a mop of blonde hair, I tugged the door open and stepped in.

"Miles! I was just talking to Alicia about what happened at the World Cup." The Gryffindor Chaser glowed upon seeing me, but her friend kept her reaction neutral. I took a seat beside Bell, closing the distance between us. She didn't mind.

I smirked. "The part where I rescue you from Death Eaters, or the morning after?" The smugness dripping from my voice was evident to even myself. Spinnet took the latter half of my sentence the wrong way, immediately sending Bell a scandalized realization dawned on Bell, her cheeks flushed red.

"Not like that!" she squeaked. "All I did was to buy him breakfast as a courtesy." Spinnet still raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Death Eaters? You saved her from them?" Spinnet inquired.

"I did."

She nodded appreciatively. Bell started to dive back into the telling of the story: she was describing Ireland's victory when I had interrupted, and now moved on to the telling of her celebration post-game. She added in many details that made the story interesting to hear: even when she moved on to the telling of the time she, Scott and I spent in her tent, the comical narration of her inner monologues and the exaggeration of some of Scott's and my physical and verbal tendencies made the next half hour of the journey entertaining.

As Bell vividly painted a picture of the three Death Eaters who we had encountered, the door opened. The three of us turned to see the newcomer: it was Leanne, who quickly took a seat next to Spinnet opposite me. Giving us a tired half-smile, she tilted her head back and gave a sigh. "I've finally gotten rid of Emma: the sound of Exploding Snap was driving me crazy!" With half lidded eyes, she tucked her hands over her stomach. "Barely got any sleep last night. Wake me up when we reach Hogsmeade."

"I doubt us telling stories will be any quieter than her sister's carriage," whispered Spinnet.

I halfheartedly shrugged. "It's mostly just Bell speaking. Besides, we could always charm- put her to sleep with a spell, I mean."

There was a grunt from Leanne. "That'd be good," she murmured.

I pulled out my wand from my pocket with a well-rehearsed flick, but realized I couldn't put her to sleep with magic. While I was vaguely famliar with the Bewitching Sleep spell: the incantation being _Condormio_ and the wand movement two 'Z's, I had never successfully executed one. Doubting Leanne wanted to be used as a practice dummy, I stood up. "I'm going to get the potion from my trunk."

Retrieving a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion had been easy, with my trunk magically sorted for convenience. Briefly checking the label to ascertain its identity, a wave of pride washed over me. The potion had been brewed earlier this summer, and my looping scrawl denoted it was good for four hours. It had been simple enough to brew, but this was one of the first times someone else would get to use it.

Returning to my compartment, I loudly uncorked the vial, and pressed it into Leanne's outstretched palm. She sleepily muttered her thanks, downing the potion in a gulp. I sat down. Already unconscious, Leanne's head lolled to her left. _At least she doesn't snore. _

Bell looked at me with wide eyes. "I didn't know you brewed potions like that."

"What do you mean?"

She cocked her head, watching me intently. Blonde strands of hair framed her face. "You said you liked Potions, but I didn't expect you to do it at home." We weren't allowed to bring back potions we had made in school.

"Doesn't help that Snape teaches the subject. How're you even still interested in the subject?" Spinnet chuckled, but her face grew serious. "He treats you better doesn't he? You and the rest of your house?"

I looked at Bell. "Snape's a good brewer and potions master, but not a good teacher. The subject as a whole is fascinating: potions can sometimes do what magic cannot." She tilted her body towards me slightly, seeming interested in what I had to say. "I can teach you how to brew some potions, if you like. Things you don't learn yet." I added quickly.

"I'll take you up on that offer in school," said Bell cheerfully. "I'd love to get better at brewing potions, since I already like Herbology."

Spinnet still looked at me blankly. "Is it just me, or are most Slytherins good at Potions?"

I pressed my lips together. "No more than Gryffindors are good at Transfiguration, or Ravenclaws at Charms."

Bell returned her attention to Spinnet. "Still want to hear about the rest of the World Cup?"

The two witches began to discuss the events of the World Cup again, with Spinnet contributing her version of events from another campsite. I decided to leave the compartment momentarily, and stretch my legs. Nearly tripping over Leanne's outstretched legs, I awkwardly pushed the door open.

* * *

Moving towards the back of the train slowly, I glanced through each window, occasionally recognizing its occupants. One door down, I spotted Lucian Bole, who returned my nod. As I headed towards the next carriage, a door burst open behind me. Fred and George Weasley made a mad dash towards the front of the Express, their excited chatter echoing through the narrow passageway. Lee Jordan and a female Gryffindor I did not recognize followed suit, angrily yelling at them. I quickly hurried into the next carriage, wanting to avoid the trail of mayhem associated with the twins.

An icy voice drifted down the aisle, slightly muffled. "-tournament, if Fudge is to be believed... Heard there's going to be danger and money..." I halted in my footsteps, quickly positioning myself outside the compartment where the snippet of conversation had taken place. That voice sounded familiar. _Malfoy?_

The speaker took on a more snooty tone, his voice drowning out the murmurs in the carriage. "Winning is for the smart, Goyle-" It had to be Malfoy. I contemplated entering the compartment, but quickly reminded myself Malfoy and I weren't on the friendliest terms. If Fudge was involved, it was probably a major event: an announcement would probably be made at Hogwarts. Malfoy also seemed to have shut up, beginning to recount an encounter with a Weasley, to derisive hoots of laughter from his companions. My eavesdropping would likely yield nothing more of value, and I decided to keep walking.

A older Ravenclaw strode down the aisle purposefully, glasses slightly askew on his nose. He blinked open seeing me. "Miles Bletchley?"

"That'd be me."

His black eyes darted around."Scott- Scott Vaisey's looking for you." He motioned to a door on his left. "He's in that compartment."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He just passed the message to me in the prefect's compartment." It was then that I noticed his blue prefect's badge pinned to his robes.

"Alright." I stepped past him, and opened the door. From his seat, Scott quickly rose to his feet. Celia Runcorn and Earl Urquhart also occupied the carriage, the latter flipping through a leatherbound notebook.

"Miles! Didn't see you on the train earlier." He quickly patted his school robes, which were crumpled from sitting down. "Celia's been made a prefect too."

Runcorn barely glanced up, her blue eyes glazed over with boredom. I had a vague recollection of Scott admitting his one-sided affections with her in third year, and I silently wished him luck with his nightly patrols with her this year.

"That's...great. Congratulations." Scott regarded me, bemused, while Runcorn turned back to stare outside the window. "Don't you have duties to do?"

Scott fiddled with his badge. "Yeah, later. Got to go up and down the train to remind people to check if their things are packed." He cast a quick glance at Runcorn.

"Anyway, did you want to see me?"

His voice was sheepish. "I got a little bored. Celia doesn't really want to talk, and Earl's a little busy."

"You could always come to our compartment. Bell's telling Spinnet about the World Cup."

"Ah. My duties start in a few minutes though." He paused for a moment. "I actually told Robert to pass the message if he saw you about an hour and a half ago."

"Robert?" Was that the Ravenclaw I saw just outside?

"Robert Kiddell. Ravenclaw prefect. He's in sixth year."

I chuckled. "Tell him he isn't doing a good job of finding me."

Before Scott could reply, there was the soft chime of bells outside the compartment. Urquhart set his book down. "Anything from the trolley?" croaked the sweets vendor. Answer forgotten, Scott eagerly scrambled out, and I followed.

Greedily eyeing the assortment of sweets, Scott unzipped his coin pouch. With all the willpower of a child before a candy cart, he pulled out a handful of Chocolate Frogs, and a box of Every Flavor Beans. Turning to me, he selected a box of Cauldron Cakes: my preferred snack. He quickly paid for the confectioneries, and returned to the compartment. I picked up a bag of Jelly Slugs, depositing 15 Knuts into the witch's coin bag.

I took a seat beside Scott, watching as he swiftly opened the box of beans. He popped one into his mouth, flinching. "I need to do my duties now," he said apologetically.

Wistfully looking at his sweets, he stood up again. "Let's go, Celia." He waved goodbye, and left the small room. Urquhart paid me no attention, sucking noisily on a Mice Pop.

Seeing no point in staying, I left the compartment too, scooping up the Cauldron Cakes. I watched as Scott trudged further back into the train, knocking on each door. Runcorn and I walked in the same direction, but she paid no mind to me. I did not strike up conversation.

I returned to my compartment quickly, reclining in my seat to watch the scenery. In a few hours, we would be back at Hogwarts, to start our fifth year. I wonder what the competition's going to be. The rest of the journey was spent in the companionable comfort of Bell and Spinnet.

* * *

**You'll be seeing Durmstrang and Beauxbatons soon enough!**


	16. The Sorting

**I wasn't very satisfied with the chapter at first: originally, it lapsed back into the unsatisfying open end that I tended to use as a crutch. Pretty much the last 600 words were tirelessly rewritten: hopefully, you'll find them to your liking!**

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Scott took his usual seat beside me in the Great Hall. The long tables, laden with dishes of every imaginable kind as always, were garnished with house-coloured tablecloths and a carpet had been rolled down the main aisle. Scott idly fingered his badge as he eyed the staff table. There were a couple of empty seats.

"Who do you think is going to be our new Defence teacher?" Beatrix Derby asked. The other Slytherin girls around her loudly speculated the identity of the unfortunate witch or wizard,and Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Henry Figg leaned in, elbows poking into my spot at the table. "At the rate we're running through teachers, we might as well start hiring Aurors." He chuckled at his own joke, only to be shushed loudly by John Baker, the seventh-year Slytherin prefect. The main doors swung open, and the constant buzz of chatter from each table stopped. McGonagall was leading a long trail of first years into the hall: they were all drenched in water. It seemed there had been a slight accident with the boats. As they lined up to get sorted, I caught the eye of a quivering boy. His blue eyes reflected nothing but anxiety, and I found myself giving him a forced smile.

McGonagall produced a stool, placing the Sorting Hat onto it. There was a collective silence from everyone gathered, as we awaited a new song from the Hat. In a few moments, it spoke, its gravelly voice filling the Hall.

_"A thousand years or more ago,_

_When I was newly sewn,_

_There lived four wizards of renown,_

_Whose names are still well known:_

_Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,_

_Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,_

_Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad," _

Figg nudged me. "At least the song rhymes this time." I laughed along with him.

_"Shrewd Slytherin, from fen._

_They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,_

_They hatched a daring plan_

_To educate young sorcerers_

_Thus Hogwarts School began._

_Now each of these four founders_

_Formed their own house, for each_

_Did value different virtues_

_In the ones they had to teach." _

It was the same content, just phrased differently. Now would come the part where each house's virtues were described...

_"By Gryffindor, the bravest were_

_Prized far beyond the rest;" _Lucian Bole snorted.

_"For Ravenclaw, the cleverest_

_Would always be the best;_

_For Hufflepuff, hard workers were_

_Most worthy of admission;_

_And power-hungry Slytherin_

_Loved those of great ambition." _There were collective nods amongst our table, with the occasional frown from a disapproving student. The Hat had been created by Godric Gryffindor, after all.

_"While still alive they did divide_

_Their favorites from the throng,_

_Yet how to pick the worthy ones_

_When they were dead and gone?_

'_Twas Gryffindor who found the way,_

_He whipped me off his head_

_The founders put some brains in me_

_So I could choose instead!_

_Now slip me snug about your ears,_

_I've never yet been wrong,_

_I'll have a look inside your mind_

_And tell where you belong!"_ The song remained mostly the same. Still, the second years seemed surprised at the revision of the musical piece, while the first years were completely awed, breaking out in loud whispers. The muggleborns in particularly would be the most surprised, it being one of their first times in a magical location: a singing hat surely added to their sense of wonderment.

When the song had ended, McGonagall quickly got the first years to line up, and the Sorting Hat was placed on a trembling Stewart Ackerly. He was whisked off to Ravenclaw, where a collective round of cheers broke out.

Malcolm Baddock was next. There was already a fierce cunning in his eyes as he scanned the room: his sister had been in the house before she graduated. Sure enough, he joined our table after a mere few seconds of deliberation by the Hat.

Eleanor Branstone and Owen Cauldwell were both put into Hufflepuff, the latter after nearly a minute of thinking by the hat. Dennis Creevey, the brother of Colin Creevey, who had been Potter's number one fan, was unsurprisingly sorted to Gryffindor. Scott let out smirk, seeing the warm welcome Creevey's table was giving Dennis.

Emma Dobbs, a mousy-haired little girl who bore little resemblance to Leanne except for for her tousled hair and brown eyes stepped up to the hat. Like Cauldwell, the hat took nearly a full minute to place her into Hufflepuff. Her sister didn't seem to exemplify Gryffindor: in a way, she and Bell displayed an unwavering loyalty to each other. I supposed they could have gone either way to each house.

The rest of the sorting passed uneventfully: apart from Peregrine Derrick's outlandish display of anger when his brother was sorted into Ravenclaw, and the fainting of a Robert Farquhar upon being sorted into Gryffindor, it was a sorting like any other. We welcomed 19 new Slytherins this year, 7 of whom already had siblings amongst us. 4 of them had unfamiliar last names: they must have been half-bloods or muggleborns. Still, I paid them no mind.

Dinner was then served. Scott excitedly reached for a slice of pie, and I took a turkey drumstick. There were a few excited gasps from the first years, which I largely ignored as I tucked into my meal. The house elves had really outdone themselves this time: subsequent meals would pale in comparison to the first feast of the year.

The Bloody Baron floated over. Though his eyes did not turn to face us, it was an eerie feeling. I felt his ghostly gaze penetrate me, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat before he drifted away from the Grey Lady, who approached.

In twenty minutes, the plates emptied themselves, being replaced by a various assortment of deserts. As I finished my chocolate pudding, Dumbledore stepped forward. It was customary for him to deliver a few announcements at the start of the year.

As usual, Filch had banned various joke items: Zonko's Joke Shop in Hogsmeade, and by extension, the Weasley twins, had been his worst enemy last year. I doubted the Squib could enforce the ban this year. The headmaster then reiterated that the Forbidden Forest was out-of-bounds, not that anyone would visit the place, and once again stated that first and second years could not visit Hogsmeade. The groans of disappointment this year were quieter.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year." Immediately, there was a roar of protest from all four houses, with Warrington and Montague rising to their feet. Lucian Bole scowled, but didn't say anything. This was an outrage! The Quidditch Cup had taken place, uninterrupted, since the Wizarding War had concluded. What warranted this disruption?

The murmurs of discontent quickly quietened as Dumbledore continued, but there was the occasional bark of disapproval. "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts..." The competition at Hogwarts: this must have been what Malfoy was talking about. But something of this capacity?

Before Dumbledore could continue, the doors to the Hall burst open to clap of thunder. A slouching figure staggered towards the staff table in a meaningful limp: one of his legs had been replaced at the hip by an artificial leg. As he approached us, I could make out a brilliant flash of white beneath his matted grey hair...

A magic eye stood out from his scarred face: it wasn't his dashed nose, or his crooked mouth that was striking, but the constantly swiveling, magical, all-seeing electric eye that had aided in the demise of Death Eaters and dark creatures, that had aided in the demise of...

It was Mad-Eye Moody, famed ex-Auror. It seemed the idea of teaching a future generation of wizards how to duel and protect themselves from the Dark Arts had lured him out of retirement. Finally walking up to Dumbledore, he gave the headmaster a firm handshake, before sitting down to the headmaster's right. As he ate an entire string of sausages, his eye never seemed to cease darting around the Hall, taking in every minute detail.

"May I introduce our new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher?" There was a silence, and it seemed that apart from a select few older students, and most of our table, many students in Hogwarts were terrified of the stranger. "Professor Moody."

There were a few gasps of recognition, and chatter as each student confirmed their thoughts. Moody took a swig from a dirty flask he carried on his hip. As he twitched slightly, his eye swiveled about madly. The war had left him with numerous mannerisms.

At last, Dumbledore continued. "As I was saying, we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months," I had already known as much. "an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year." So that was it, then! The competition had been suspended after protests from Beauxbatons Academy. The French had been concerned over the numerous deaths and injuries in the tournament, and Hogwarts and Durmstrang had agreed to stop. I wonder why it had started up this year.

The headmaster launched into a quick history of the tournament, many of the students listening enraptured. He then concluded by informing us that the entourage from the two other schools would be arriving in October, and the selection of the champions would be at the Halloween feast. Unlike the rest of the school, I wasn't bothered at all by the fact only seventh-years could participate, seeing the bloody history of the competition before. Paying close attention to the Weasley twins, Dumbledore cryptically hinted at an impartial method of selection that was bound to reject those seventeen and under, while still choosing the best possible champion from each school.

Dumbledore's speech concluded, drawing the feast to an end. Instead of walking back to our dormitories as we usually did, Scott lingered at the main table, waiting for the last few first years. He would be carrying out his first duty as a prefect: leading the first years back to their dormitories. I remembered my first time doing so: this time, Scott would definitely be much friendlier. Seeing no way to speed things up, I sat down, resigned to wait for them to head off. At the entrance, all four houses milled about, the house colours displayed boisterously. Of course, in a week or so, the dress code would relax as our enthusiasm about school dimmed. An older Hufflepuff prefect I did not know gently nudged her bleary-eyed housemate along, and I thought of Scott again. As a prefect, he would also be patrolling the hallways at night: he would probably come back to our dormitory half an hour or so after I usually fell asleep. Well, good for him. It would certainly make nights more boring: Kevin Harper slept much earlier than us, and slept much noisier than us.

Scott returned. "Kelly Orin's missing," he told me apologetically. "Celia and I are going to look for her, I'll try and be done in a few minutes." Before I could reply, he jogged off. Runcorn was already combing the tables. Sighing, I leaned back in my seat, thumbing the soft fabric of my scarf.

Minutes passed, and I was jolted out of my idle thoughts by a light tap on my shoulder. "Miles!"

Bell? "Bell," I said. My back was turned to her, concealing a daft smile that would otherwise have betrayed the nonchalance in my voice. "Shouldn't you be heading back with the other Gryffindors?"

She moved over, and I could see a similar expression on her face. "They aren't here. Fred, George and Angelina are waiting for a shipment of Firewhiskey to be dropped off-" her eyes darted around, and she lowered her voice theatrically- "somewhere here tonight, and Alicia accompanied Lee back to his room because he felt sick."

"Walking back alone, then?"

She grinned impishly, cocking her head slightly. "I was hoping you'd accompany me back to the dormitories."

"I'll walk with you as far as the Viaduct." Her hopeful smile wavered, and there was a twinge of guilt in my chest. "Fine, back to the tower." Bell perked up upon hearing this, her hazel eyes gleaming with delight. "It's the least I could do for a friend."

"Let's go, then." I stood up, and Bell started her stroll back. Distantly, I wondered if Scott would miss me. Still, I was walking with a friend either way, right? Why Bell then, over Scott?

As my brain searched for an answer, Bell started talking. She had a nice voice: it lacked the coarseness of Flint's, the drawl of a professor's and the odd inflections of Scott's. No point worrying, I decided, as she amiably launched into another tale, this time sharing about some musical event she attended as a child.

* * *

**For a Katie/Miles branded story, the two of them weren't interacting as much as I wanted to, so I tried to make up a bit with this chapter. It's a bit hard to find a plausible explanation for the two of them fraternizing so often, so that's why they didn't talk as much before. Fret not, you'll be seeing more and more of them as the story progresses!**


	17. Defense against the Dark Arts

**Updates may be slower from now on: I've already got three chapters written in the meantime, but school may get in the way. Hope you enjoy this chapter nonetheless!**

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"Today's our first Defence against the Dark Arts class with Professor Moody!" Scott exclaimed, as we headed to the classroom.

"I know."

He looked straight ahead, feet pattering as we climbed the third flight of stairs. We were joined by a few other Slytherins and Gryffindors walking in the same direction. "History just now was mind-numbingly boring. At least we have combined classes with the Gryffindors now." If Binns hadn't been a ghost, he would probably have put himself to sleep too.

Scott continued on. "What'd you think Moody'll make us do? He's famous for being an ex-Auror, you know."

"I know."

He finally regarded me with a frown, opened his mouth as if to say something, but dropped it. I took a seat at the back of the classroom, and Scott did likewise, sitting in front of me. With the exception of some spinning instruments placed onto the teacher's desk, and the presence of the professor himself, the classroom looked the same. Moody was standing prominently at the front, conversing with some Gryffindors who had taken their seats near the teacher's table. His magical eye spun slightly to stare at me for a moment, before jarringly turning to the empty doorway. I looked down at my book.

The curriculum plan, according to our notes, stated that we would be learning Counter-Jinxes and Counter-Curses, along with a few more practical spells, such as Stunners and the Disarming Charm. The Shield Charm would be taught, with some assistance from Flitwick. There was a heavy emphasis on practical spells this year, with Dark Arts theory being taught the next. With the curse on the position, Moody would probably not be around to teach us about the Dark Arts next year. I decided that was a good thing.

As I thumbed through a long, yet non-exhaustive list of Counter-Jinxes, the rest of the class filed in. Most of them seemed awed or honoured to be in his presence, with a select few warily taking their seats at the back of the class. Moody loudly rapped on the table.

"Put away your books, now! You won't be needing them as far as I'm concerned!" His voice was hoarsely, yet rang through the room with the fanaticism of a man who had spent most of his life fighting off Dark Wizards and creatures. "Today's lesson will be a simple demonstration on some curses!" The class hung off every word he said with rapt attention.

Moody took a step forward, whisking a glass jar from a suitcase into his hand. He jerkily set it down on Leanne's table, and she shifted her seat back to watch. "I won't only be teaching you about any ordinary, run-of-the-mill spells, though!" A murmur rose through the class again: we hadn't been this active when Lupin was teaching us about Boggarts and Inferi.

"These are the worst of the lot!" he barked. "The Unforgivable Curses." With a flick of his wand, three spells scrawled themselves onto the chalkboard.

_The Cruciatus Curse. The Imperius Curse. The Killing Curse. _

His attempt to sound somber was overturned by the flint of his voice. "I imagine you all know what these curses are and what they can do." He whipped around in the direction of Leanne's desk, and the glass jar on it burst open. A spider scampered onto Leanne's desk before enlarging, prompting her to hurl herself away. She landed on the floor with a thud, but Moody did not care. A few Slytherins sniggered loudly, and I scowled at them.

Moody's loud cough silenced all of us, and I returned my attention to the front. "First, the Cruciatus Curse!" He leveled his wand at the spider, which was crawling around the desk, blissfully unaware of its coming impediment. "_Crucio!_" Moody roared. Though no light emerged from his wand, the spider began to contort in pain, its spindly legs flailing about. A few Slytherins stood up to watch the spectacle more clearly, though a few students winced and looked away. I watched as Bell's eyes widened slowly, her mouth slowly opening. There was a mounting horror unfolding in her eyes, and I looked back to see the spider writhing about in agony.

There was a wild gleam in Moody's eyes, which faded as he waved his wand. He now held it behind his back, and the spider collapsed onto the table. "The Cruciatus curse causes unimaginable pain. I don't suppose any of you wish to have that inflicted on you, now." His voice softened, and the spider was whisked back into a jar, which closed itself tightly.

Just as quickly as he had quietened, Moody's voice rose to a fervor again. "The next Unforgivable Curse! The Imperius!" Another spider was released from a jar on Moody's desk. "It allows the caster complete and utter control over the victim; few are aware they are being Imperiused, and even fewer manage to fight it off._ Imperius!_"

The spider shuddered for a moment, and Bell flinched. Instead of struggling, however, the spider ceased its scrabbling, standing completely still.

"Now, it will do anything the caster demands of it. Anything!" It immediately began to cartwheel, pivot and spin around, at one point seemingly performing a tap dance. The class broke into raucous laughter, but Bell watched nervously. Scott, who had not uttered a word till now, turned back. "I imagine you could even get that blasted thing to off itself!"

His eyes bulged, as Moody's magical eye spun towards him. "You are correct, Mr. Vaisey! It will do anything!" The spider hopped into a teacup Moody had left on the desk. The class's laughter stifled, when it did not resurface after half a minute.

"Now you see why the Imperius curse is so devastating: one who submits to the will of the caster will have no control whatsoever!"

"And for the final curse," Moody's eye spun from student to student, gauging their reactions. Most had a look of trepidation on them, the occasional Slytherin smirking with unmasked glee. "The Killing Curse." The final spider hopped onto the floor, scampering towards the exit. Moody, however, was faster. "_Avada Kedevra!_"

A sickly shade of emerald green darted towards the spider. The moment it made contact, there was a zap and the spider's lifeless body was hurled down the aisle of tables. A few students winced, looking at it.

"The ability to sever a life from its body is not one to take lightly," Moody gravely warned us. "The Killing Curse is the worst amongst the Unforgivables, because its effects are permanent." A silence fell over both Slytherin and Gryffindor.

"And now, I will show you how to effectively deal with each curse. We'll only have time to cover the Cruciatus today, but we'll be finishing all three by the end of the week."

A hand was raised, which Moody nodded at. The speaker, Tiffany Salvatrix, stood up. "What do you mean, deal with them, Professor?"

Moody continued pacing. "In a battle against Dark wizards, expect no reprieve! You need to stay strong! Constant vigilance!" He stopped in his tracks. "I'm going to case the curse to let you see how it feels like to be on the receiving end of one!" He spotted our mortified looks, and added, "Dumbledore's given me permission to do so. Ministry's not going to be happy about this, but I reckon you lot are better than those good-for-nothing louts! Anyone wants to step forward?" When no one did, he seemed to flash a grimace, but the expression was indiscernible, the scars obscuring his emotion.

At last, a sandy-haired Gryffindor rose from his seat, striding towards the aisle. He stopped in front of Moody, folding his arms. "I'll do it, Professor." His words oozed with overconfidence.

"Your name, boy?"

"McLaggen. Cormac McLaggen." Though his back was turned, he almost certainly wore a smirk. Brash Gryffindors.

"I'll go easy on you. Yell 'Halt' if it's too much for you, alright?"

He nodded.

Moody adjusted his stance, pointing his wand at McLaggen. If the Gryffindor felt fear, he did not show it, standing his ground between the two columns of desks. The professor twisted his face into a snarl. "Crucio!"

At once, McLaggen collapsed to his knees, fists balled up tightly. He shuddered briefly, before throwing his head back and letting out a primal scream. A few students leapt out of their seats, one shouting his name. McLaggen was thrashing about on the floor now, yet through this Moody held the spell.

I scrambled out of my seat to join the others, a circle forming around McLaggen. A few students cast uneasy looks at Moody, hands reaching for their wands. The Gryffindor opened his mouth as if to say something, but clamped his jaw shut, his limbs flailing about wildly.

"It-STOP-help-argh-please-HALT!" His voice was raw, and a sheen of sweat had formed down his shirt. Moody finally lowered his wand. "I was wondering when you'd let it drop, boy."

The students returned to their seats, but McLaggen remained kneeling on the floor, panting noisily. "The curse cannot be fought off, cannot be countered. It will only stop when the caster stops. There is no way to fight it off: being exposed to it frazzles your brain, and doesn't protect you in the future. Unless you can incapacitate or disrupt the casting, you can only grit your teeth and hope it wears off." Moody nodded to the Gryffindor. "Glad to see you came to your senses towards the end and called it off." McLaggen did not look up.

He had lasted ten seconds.

Bell and Leanne had caught up with Scott and I on the way to the Great Hall for lunch. We exchanged greetings, but it did not take long for the conversation to switch topics to the recently concluded Defence Class.

"That was horrible! Professor Moody shouldn't have held the spell for so long: Didn't he see Cormac was in pain?" Bell protested, slowly shaking her head.

I sniffed. "In his defence, McLaggen did volunteer." Even if it was just to show off.

"He was given a safe word, too." Leanne added.

Bell considered this for a moment, chewing on her lip. "He was in pain," she said softly. "Horrible pain."

"Bad enough to addle up his thinking: it looked like he almost forgot about the safe word Moody gave him." Scott chipped in. "Lucky he remembered in the end. Lucky for him, I mean."

We were silent for a moment. After half a minute, Leanne spoke up, "The Cruciatus's the worst kind of pain, isn't it? I heard it's bad enough to drive someone into insanity."

Scott nodded. "I think it is."

Bell face flushed. "I wonder how Professor Dumbledore approved the use of such curses. On a student, nonetheless!" Moody's fervour for Defence against the Dark Arts knew no bounds. Dumbledore must have trusted the ex-Auror a lot to let these curses be practiced. I wasn't sure if that was a bad thing or not.

"I hope he isn't going to ask for student volunteers when he teaches us how to protect against the Killing Curse," Scott deadpanned. Bell and Leanne eyed him oddly, but did not reply.

Speaking of protecting against the Killing Curse... "Moody looks at Potter oddly sometimes. Do you think he knows how The-Boy-Who-Lived did it?"

"Harry's pretty quiet during Quidditch practice, and we've never brought up the topic before." Leanne nodded in agreement.

Scott glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at us. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Moody was trying to kill us." He snorted at his own joke.

Leanne peered at us from behind her black fringe. "I'd sure hope not. I've had my share of excitement and mystery already, with the Triwizarding Tournament and all."

"Hmm. Yeah." I blinked once, remembering something. "How'd you think Moody's going to leave the Defence position?"

* * *

**For a Death Eater, Barty Crouch Jr. is a pretty good teacher. **


End file.
